here and there

It’s been roughly a year and a half since the start of the Covid-19 pandemic here in Indonesia, and I’ve recently been trying to understand where I’m at. Not physically, as in physical space, but mentally and probably existentially. What is the state of my mind? I am aware that I’ve become somewhat bitter, my late nights are sometimes riddled with anxiety for what the next day may bring and reoccurring personal-collective grief has at times, and recently more often than I would like to admit, numbed me.

This may probably be my mind’s automatic coping mechanism seeing all this death mainly as a result of how my government has failed us, its citizens, especially during a time of crises. And I really need to stress this point: how my government has failed us Indonesians during the times we need it the most and I very much believe that it is because of this why many of us Indonesians are in constant misery and haunted by that feeling of despair. If chronic physical pain causes constant daily anguish, I am not surprised if chronic physical and mental pain caused by structural violence causes persistent misery as well.

I’m somewhat fortunate in this regard, I’m grateful that I’ve learned ways to keep my sanity in check. My contemplative practice is key for me. Honestly, I wouldn’t have gotten far in life without it. I have many people to thank, but Art Buehler especially, my former professor in esoteric contemplative/meditative practices who reminded me and pointed a certain possible direction of where I should head when I sense a lost in my life’s direction, is one those I should thank the most. I know this seems like an individualized response to structural oppression, and I don’t intend to paint such a picture, but I do believe we need some kind of mental stability to keep on going. To survive if not thrive.

Art sadly passed away in 2019. I received an email about his passing. And come to think of it I never really did allow myself to properly grieve for his passing. I don’t know why. To be told through a short concise email that someone you cared for died, without having the opportunity to properly say goodbye feels like that person never really passed away. It is horrible way to end relationships. A sudden cut, nothing finalized, and since goodbyes are relational, now nothing can really ever be concluded. I have to make amends with myself and only with myself. If I said goodbye yesterday, or if I say goodbye today or perhaps tomorrow, will it ever be enough for me?

Life is individual yet also relational. It’s good to have friends, family, people that care for you or the odd mix of all three to get you through life. So although I have these array of tools to possibly help get me through life but if the people whom you look for some kind direction is no longer present, I’m just not sure for how long I can maintain it if I’m doing all this by myself. Will a breaking point come to me?

The mind is a fickle thing, and the mind is as strong as its habits. Bad habits, bad mind. Good habits, good healthy mind (no habits, no mind?). They also say that things that might happen, will indeed happen. It is just a matter of time. If so, how will I break? To what extent? For how long? What will change? What will I lose? Will there be something renewed? Will I come out the same person? Will I come out changed but for the worst?

This is one of the things that worries me. That certainty of uncertainty. The certainty of breaking, the uncertainty of when and of its form. Will I explode in sudden exasperation, engulfed in madness? Will it be a quick balloon pop yet a slow descend into meaninglessness? An unabashed diatribe rant towards someone I care? Something that’s just a twitter post away from me on actually doing it. Will this be an opening, an opportunity for ’satori’, a sudden lift of the ‘veil’, bringing about comprehension and understanding of the true nature of things? Questions, questions, questions, not much when it comes to answers, is all I have for now.

To be hopeful is hard these days and with the wavering hope, very much coming and going like waves, it has become incredibly hard to even retain any semblance of kindness. That is something I do not want to actively become a habit of. Without hope, comes the cold embrace of fatalism that many on the 'left’ are guilty of. Clutched by fatalism, empathy becomes harder to come by. I’ve seen it, and I have felt it.

I know that my eroding sense of hope is connected to my personal dreams. Specifically how it has become very hard to actualize it. Rara and I never really planned on staying in Indonesia for long. I was confident enough, a bit too confident come to think of it, that we will be out of Indonesia by 2021 the latest. A mere 2 ½ years after our last stay in New Zealand. The plan was for me to continue my studies, getting into a Ph.D. program and of course a scholarship. That was our ticket out. Hoping that we’ll be back to our old routine in Wellington, in and out the university’s library, my head in books, loving our 'flatwhites’ while regretting having too much of it, the usual stint doing some university tutoring, community organizing stuff, lazy gardening, out and about on the weekends tramping around Wellington and if Covid did not happen or/and maybe if my government handled things much, much better I think that would’ve been the case. Or at least I constantly would like to imagine that would be the case.

Yet here we are still in Indonesia, me struggling to do my Ph.D. through this wretched distant learning, initially in the comfort of my home yet steadily devolving into cabin fever. And Rara with her own struggles trying her best to get back on her feet as an aspiring musician. None of it is going as well as we had hoped for. All this while juggling trying our best to keep ourselves safe and our families and friends safe. Both of us have become direct witnesses how challenging this has been, physically and mentally. Both of us slowly grappling with the continual kick in the gut, the never ending structural absurdity, violently absurd.

That slow grueling realization of how fragile our lives are. Not just existentially. It is existentially precarious yet at the same time understanding that precariousness in many of its aspects is structurally and politically maintained. It is this political construction of precarity, which Isabell Lorey elaborates in her book State of Insecurity: Government of the Precarious, that angers and saddens us the most.

Lorey provides a nuanced approach in unpacking and differentiating this thing called being 'precarious’. The three dimensions of being precarious: precariousness, precarity and then precarization. On precariousness, Lorey draw’s on Judith Butler’s conceptualization of precariousness which she sees as existential, relational and inevitable. I’ll insert my existential philosophy and Buddhist values here, to help me see and more importantly accept the transient nature of life and that impermanence or change is the only constant. Our lives, our bodies are destined to die and wither away. We humans are fragile mortal beings. The loss of life, the loss of one’s identity, the loss of everything that makes us, us is unavoidable. It’s also a 'relational’ thing, as in it is also a shared experience. Everyone will experience it. It is the great equalizer some say.

Then we have precarity. Yes everyone dies, but the process of dying or even the process of grieving someone’s death is dependent on what Lorey see as the “effects of different political, social and legal compensations of a general precariousness”. Some die at young age due to starvation, riddled with poverty and disease and have nothing or no one to ease their pain, others die surrounded by family and friends in a well-cared for hospital. Some have days or weeks to grieve, others have to go back to work the next day as she or he have no luxury to stop working even just for a moment and simply grieve. To stop working even for a day draws some closer to the possibility of death for the person or those dependent on the person working. This is the inequality of dying and grieving due to our social hierarchies. How fragile we are, is dependent on those social hierarchies.

And last we have Lorey’s third dimension, governmental precarization which is the instrumentalization of insecurity by the government. In other words, the government using the idea and the reality of insecurity as a tool or device to control its citizens. The calculated, deliberate attempt by the government in destabilizing our lives in order for us to be easily governed. Insecurity, be it real or due to perceived constructed fear of insecurity is an effective governing tool. The fear of being labeled “useless and lacking in contribution to the nation-state”. The genuine insecurity of not being able to get a job due to the false understanding that it is simply a result of an individual’s laziness rather than due to systematic government policies. The deliberate attempt in making our lives constantly insecure, constantly on the edge, without us initially knowing it and when we do come to understand, the blame is on us. It is normalized and it is internalized.

This is not simply a social issue, it is a deeply existential one as well. We Indonesians have very little to make us feel safe at the moment. Covid and the government’s response to it has severely limited our movements and it’s not simply physical immobility, but also an existential one, the inability to even have the imagination that our lives are actually “going somewhere”, towards a forward direction. Perhaps some sort of minute incremental progress, but progress nonetheless. This imagined mobility is what Ghassan Hage calls as “existential mobility” and this immobility suffered by many of us is what he also calls as “stuckedness”.

Turning an often momentary or the ephemeral nature of a crisis into something prolonged and perhaps even permanent is another part of the strategy of governmental precarization. Our lives or jobs are always on the line and again coupled with the sick prevailing idea that we only have ourselves to find the solution. The crisis is permanent, we don’t know why but we’ve been told that way, if we fail to overcome it is because of our personal inabilities thus proliferating and intensifying this sense of stuckedness.

Forcing us to accept whatever solution the government-messiah presents us with in order to relieve us from this suffering. From labour laws that normalizes precariousness even more, to oppressive new laws that limits our desire and ability to dissent, to including who or how our enemies are defined, easily accepting who is to blame for all this insecurity we are all suffering.

Be it the long dead Indonesian communists, the Chinese Indonesians and the racist perception of them being “selfish and greedy”, the Indonesian Islamists - the kadruns and their conservatism, the “foreign forces” whomever they may be constantly trying to take over Indonesia, anyone or anything is to blame. Anyone but the Indonesian government and its affluent patrons. Insecurity and the fear that rises from it renders many of us easily governable and compliant.

This governmental precarization and this 'stuckedness’, which Hage sees no longer as a possibility that may or may not happen but an “inevitable pathological state which has to be endured” is how Rara and I feel at the moment.

Rara and I feel our lives are going nowhere. We feel that our lives are stuck, constantly rotating in a hamster wheel trying our best to overcome our precariousness. No progress, no forward movement, no growth, just trying our best to survive from this sustained uncertainty. It’s an awful feeling, paving way to existential dread. We are very much looking forward to moving back to New Zealand as soon as possible but with the conditions right now, that is something I can’t even dare to imagine.

And although I am grateful that the weave of our privilege with at many times just pure sheer luck has kept us alive and physically well for the time being, we both now realize that we have hit a proverbial concrete wall here. Adding to the already precarious nature of life here in Indonesia, our line of work as a fledgling social science academic and aspiring artist and what Rara and I aspire to do socially, what we aspire to become, easily ends in stagnation if we intend to continue to live our lives in Indonesia. (I want to direct you to Social Science and Power edited by Vedi Hadiz and Daniel Dhakkidae to get the gist of what I’m trying to get at here.)

This is a hard pill to swallow, harder to write and even more so to act upon. I am existentially tied to Indonesia, my family and friends are here, my father is buried here and so will my mother. Memories of the distant past, the colloquial language when shitposting on social media, my mind and body have been shaped by Indonesia in ways I possibly do not even fully realize. This is why I oscillate between guilt towards others and guilt towards the self. I feel guilty for simply having an exit strategy when many others don’t, I have the luxury of choice. Yet I also I feel guilty for feeling guilty about this, as it means I am also neglecting the well-being of myself, now and in the future. I need to work on this and find my bearings, being stuck in a guilty limbo won’t get me anywhere.

And the future is far from stable, I wonder what is on the other end of surviving this pandemic? There is so much collective grief, collective anger and of course personal anger. All this will amount to something, I’m sure of that. Although I don’t know what exactly, I’m not entirely confident this something will be good. John Keane’s new book 'The New Despotism’ comes into mind.

What do I personally do with all this anger? I’ve noticed how anger, especially when it is on the verge of hatred, morphs itself and easily descends into madness, into aggression and often showing itself, unawaringly to us, when the act of expressing anger happens. Your mind becomes instantly clouded, ending in mindless action. This inability to have control over oneself terrifies me. I already have so very little semblance of control over life in general at the moment, if I truly have no control over myself whatsoever, what then do I have?

And I wonder if it is a waste of time asking these pseudo-intellectual questions? I don’t know, yet I do know I live in a society where it hones aggression and hostility, whether it be in physical and digital spaces, and I would like to draw myself away from all this at the moment before I transform myself into something I do not wish to be. Anger I can fully understand, and it is needed and useful. Yet to actively transform it into deep blinding hatred and sustain it daily, is something I feel psychologically destructive for me and I’m trying my best not to go on that path.

I rarely update this blog I know, but this blog has always been used as a personal chronicle of how much I have progressed, digressed or both. And I needed to write all this, because I’ve never been this least sure of what my life should be like and where it should go. I know I am not alone at this. This pandemic has destroyed the lives of many, our futures, our dreams, our sources of love and I hope that anyone of you reading this finds a way to get through it, doing anything you can do day in, day out.

I’m not sure it if amounts to anything. Maybe it won’t, maybe it will, or maybe it has but maybe we just can’t see it. All I can personally do for now, is to hold on to these 'maybes’, and maybe, just maybe I’ll get through this too.

“Where must we go…

We who wonder this Wasteland

in search of our better selves?”

- The First History Man, George Miller

If there is one constant emotional response that my mind and body has conjured since coming back to Indonesia, it is anger. The reasons are plentiful. Chronic social and economic injustice, growing government oppression, sheer incompetency of many government officials, religious conservatism, as the proverbial saying goes, the list goes on.

And now with the coronavirus devastatingly consuming Indonesia and my government’s response has not only been weak and slow, lacking in coordination, but also simply at many times blatantly incompetent, anti-science and anti-expertise, resulting in the deaths of many including doctors and nurses, and with no full lockdowns initiated, no mass testing, just some half-baked government encouragement to physical distancing and good hygiene. I’ve observed that this time not only am I consumed with fervent anger but at many times deep sadness and crippling fear. An unholy trinity. In the name of anger, sadness and lingering fear.

Here’s some trivia and personal info for you folks. Did you know that Tuberculosis (TB) usually leaves scars on lungs it once infected and even though it’s been decades since my bout with TB, my lungs today, as you might expect, are not in tip-top shape. So that’s my pre-existing condition that at times, at many times, throws me into a panic and into a sudden cleaning spree. Wipe here, wipe there, disinfect door knobs, drowning recently handled money in warm soapy water. Irrational fear? On the contrary my beautiful friends. Indonesia has one of the highest Covid death rates in the world and with Covid patients on the rise but not at its peak, our already sparse healthcare system is already showing its cracks. Again, just to remind you, Indonesia is not even near the peak and we’re not even doing massive tests but everything is already hanging on a thread. Adding to this misery, the lack of some kind of social safety net has this climate of dread creeping up on me, this I acknowledge and I am trying as much as I can in keeping this at bay. Dread induced paralysis is not something I can to endure at the moment.  

That’s some personal (slightly existential) rant right there.

But I understand that I’m lucky and painfully privileged to be able to work from home unlike so many others. So since at this moment my productivity rate is reaching zero and I’m basically pushing away work and other responsibilities as much as I can (which will probably come back and haunt me soon), let me just first reflect on life at the moment, updates on other things aside from this feeling of impending doom.

I’ve realized that I do not update this blog of mine as often as I would like to. Desires are kept as desires, and slowly wither away as desires. Yet as 2020 dawned on me and ages with uncertainty I spent my time re-reading old books that I have read many years ago and some of my old blog posts as well. Beginning with my first blog post which is now the ripe old age of 10 years old. One decade old. With the breakneck speed of change of today’s internet, 10 years is perhaps close to immortality in internet years. That being said, I still use Hotmail for my main email which I’ve had since 1998, the year I was introduced to the internet…and politics.

It was 13th of May 1998. I was at home with my dad as schools and offices were closed. The day before that soldiers opened fire at a student demonstration in front the University of Trisakti, Jakarta. Four students were killed, riots and demonstrations were happening everywhere the following day. So most people decided to stay home.

I remember my dad narrating the 1998 May protests as we attentively watched the event unravel through our old school CRT TV. My dad was thankfully percipient enough to refuse to go to his office during that week, but he did have friends in high places so it wasn’t much of a surprise if he received some kind of insiders info. I was about 12 years young at that time, on the cusp of teen hood. Puberty was on my mind, but that moment of watching a historical event unfold (which of course I did not understand it as something momentous) with my dad explaining with excitement of what was going on, even though I sure as hell did not understand the most of it, was illuminating. A father and son bonding session as result of reformasi. That sounded like a thesis topic: Family Relations and Social Change: Exploring Familial Relations through the 1998 Reformasi. (Hah!)

It did however shape my values and ideas that I still hold on to this day not only on politics per se but what I wanted or expected from this thing called the nation-state. I have to say that the May 1998 riots and demonstrations, the visualization of the riots on TV and my dad narrating in the background constantly interrupting the reporter, was the reason why I remember that day so clear. It made an indelible mark on me. I can’t even begin to imagine the impact to those who were physically effected by the riots, houses and stores burned down, people being raped and/or murdered..

About a week after the riots, on the 21st of May 1998 President Soeharto resigned after 32 years in power. I saw my dad cheering, again not fully grasping the reasons why, although he did try his best to explain. But it piqued my interest in politics, and being told that this this new thing (really new for me at that time) called the internet had much to offer about what was happening then, a few weeks after that, using my mom’s 36.6 kbps dial-up modem that I was awfully proud of, I registered for a shiny new Hotmail account. In hopes of joining mailing lists.

Wasantara-net, owned by Indonesia’s postal service, was my family’s choice for the internet service provider. I hated them as they were first-class in unreliability, but they were the only providers to be able to connect my house, on the edge of bogor, to the world wide web. My first few emails, if again I remember correctly, were chain mails about the May riots that I subscribed through questionable mIRC chats. Chats that start with A/S/L, age, sex, location, and either ends in hook ups, or being involved in something you’re too young or ignorant to fully understand.

Being young(er) and wanting to be part of something important is such a motivating factor in us actually doing and becoming something. With Carl Gustav Jung in mind, being young or old, we are but “modern man in search of meaning” and being part of something greater than ourselves does still give me meaning.

Fast forward a few decades, I’ve noticed that you get a raised eyebrow when you tell people that you’ve been using the same email for more than 20 years now, and you get double raised eyebrows and an instance of wincing, once they find out that said email is a Hotmail account. I am coming up with less and less excuses of why I haven’t migrated fully to other emails. But hey, you know what they say, habit brings comfort, repetition brings comfort, knowledge that arises from experience, from personal history, brings comfort. Although not always, the past brings comfort, while the future which is riddled with unpredictability is lamented and brings worry if not angst. Comfort though, I have come to understand, brings laziness and at many times dullness.

It is however always interesting looking at one’s own past and how it is intertwined with the past of others. I think I’ve written about this a number of times, and most of my writings are born from the act of retrospect. I often assume that I would not be able to talk about my future if I never look at my past, but what also happens is that I also end up talking more about my past or at the very most my present rather than talking/thinking about my future. Is that bad? Is that good? Am I shying away from discussions about my particular future? Maybe, I don’t have an answer to that now. But I know it’s there, tucked away in the back of my mind so I’ll probably talk more about that someday. And with Covid-19 destroying all of my plans in the near future that someday will probably come sooner.

Coming home to Indonesia, after a number of years abroad, I have also come to realize, sadly, that many of my social activities here in this space which I reluctantly call home, are more often than not, performative acts that I do not like performing for. I am basically faking it and I am doing this by fulfilling a cultural and social role that I necessarily do not have strong feelings for, or even just feelings for, but I have adapted myself into it. Somewhat. The reason why I do this is simply out of respect of others. Things that do not give meaning for me, has often been deeply meaningful for others and expressing it verbally does not bode well for maintaining relationships. I am happy to say that I have Rara to remind me when I have become too logical (I am happy to say that I have Rara to remind about many things in life) in understanding the meaning of culture for many. But it is, simply put, not without its personal struggles.

Being a son, being a son-in-law, being a younger and the youngest child in a family oriented, confuscianist-style, hierarchical, the-individual-is-constantly-attached-to-the-social kind of society. And then being a husband in a patriarchal society, where I am expected to fill a kind of leadership role that tires, bores and disinterests me.

(On a side note: for some reason, I have often come across this odd discussion of alpha/beta male/female amongst my peers here. Which I find interesting as it denotes a fixation to hierarchy and also the assumption of fixed temperaments/personalities of an individual across space and time. Are they basically saying that agency of one’s self perceived to be rarely possible? Is change and adapting to a situation impossible? )

Then without doubt as a citizen of a nation that I superficially identify with. How can I ever identify with a nation that happily and openly oppresses others for the sake of unity? And not only rarely admits it but even more rare tries to amend it. It is a simple rhetorical question.

In sum, I have to be honest with myself here, coming back home to Indonesia is not home for me and I don’t think it will ever be one. It is more of a burden than something that brings joy.

The food is great here and I have my family here which is also nice but life of course is much, much more than just culinary preferences or familial ties. I am losing my sense of self here, and it is destructive for me. I am losing myself.

Fully realizing this I was looking for a sense of direction when I reread some of my old already read books that once inspired and also my old blog posts these past few weeks. At the crux of it, this blog has always been for me. It is shared publicly in hopes of others sharing what they have learned through life and what I have done wrong in my life. And I have done many wrongs that have not been righted, some no longer even have the possibility of being righted.

Rereading my blog, I realize much like others, that our attempts in finding meaning, and our meanings when they are found are frail and delicate. It is constantly assailed and it is easily lost, and at times harder to find when lost. Life it seems always tries its best to rob you of meaning. Not because it is intent in doing so, but because the very nature of life is in its impermanence. Everything is impermanent including meaning itself.

Intellectually and experientially I understand this. But again like many, I’ve still tried to find meaning in others, and much like many I’ve lost these people in which I have found meaning in. This is the constant dillema as naturally social creatures.

It is perhaps in our nature to be contradictory, or to live in denial, to assume that meaning and the people or objects that give meaning is eternal.

Some of these people that I have acquired meaning from I have forever lost through death, much like so many people out there. I have also lost some rather unintentionally, such as due to spoken words that are not carefully thought out. Some by design, on purpose, with deep intent and thoroughly planned with precision execution, slowly letting go. At other times, a harsh break, a rude awakening on both ends, yet ending in a sigh of relief. As some relationships, although lush with wonderful memories, are never meant to last and can never be let to live in the future. Memories that remain as memories, stories of the past, that do not become worries of the present nor burdens of the future. Our understanding of meaning is often forced to change and to morph and at many times, to end. People and things that once provided meaning no longer do, as people and the things around us change. People including me.

I’ve changed, I know I’ve changed, I’m quieter yet more angry of the world, hopefully a bit more thoughtful of my words and actions. But one thing that hasn’t changed is how I am not done with grief, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be done with it. I’m not even sure if it’s actually grief. Because we all know that the tragedy of growing old, is the tragedy of unwillingly filling your life with regrets and maybe my grief is but a thin veil for my regrets.

One of my plants in my garden died today. A lush rosella bush that I was hoping to make some tea out of its beautiful red flowers. The days are drawing long, and hope is few and far in between.

Be well everyone.