Category: III. On Being Human

I miss my friends.

Although saying “I miss my friends” would be such a gross oversimplification—the truth is: (1) I don’t even know whether I’m a ‘friend’ to someone these days (it does get confusing), (2) it’s not so much about not being able to spend time together that it is about not being in the physical space that allows us to spend such time in the specific ways we used to (it will make sense below), and (3) life has led you to see the world (or yourself, or each other) differently and you simply can’t go back to ignorance.

I. How do we define a ‘friend’, again?

In between all the growing up and heartbreaks in your 20s, the border of ‘friendship land’ had gradually became more political. I often find myself asking whether I am still someone’s friend: Is it enough that we hang out from time to time (bilaterally and as a group), or do they need to call me when they struggle? What does it mean if you can’t tell if they’re genuinely happy for your achievements? Do they still consider you a friend if they keep prioritizing their demanding job, spouse, or baby?

Some (typically from school or work), pushed through and made it to your 30s: those who stepped in during your hard times, embraced the inconveniences of maintaining regular checkins, transcended through the traps of envy and celebrated your highs.

Making new friends, however, is a whole other ball game. Today, it’s too intense to call those you know through professional connections more than ‘colleagues’, those you meet in the studios (dance, pilates, or otherwise) were now ‘acquaintances’, and men decided to either be interested in you romantically or not a all. People simply don’t wear their heart on their sleeve anymore and ask to become someone’s friend.

Unreciprocated friendship proposals are just as real as romantic ones, by the way: those awkward invitation to “have caffeinated beverage”, met with delayed ‘reschedules’ (although sometimes they really do need to take a raincheck—too busy, too depressed, or simply are clear about their priorities—good for them, really.)

II. The unbearable lightness of growing up (and apart)

Even two years after resigning from my corporate job, I still hang out regularly with my ‘friends from the office’. They are some of my most favorite human beings on earth, and we’d make up excuses to dine together or have a roadtrip out of town. What I miss, however, is much simpler: those times that they would stop by one another’s office and just chat randomly until at some point one of us burst laughing on the floor, or walked to grab coffee together.

You know, the kind of ‘friendship’ that effortlessly fills your day, not the one you have to carve out time for.

It’s even less complicated making friends at school: you have to physically be in the same classroom or bump into each other in the canteen after all, tackle assignments together on those roundtables—every day the university will give you hundreds of reasons to make a friend. And in those random walks, your souls find one another, sparks happened, and the rest is history.

I’ve lost one too many friends to their dreams. Don’t get me wrong, I am elated for them: those pursuing academic degrees, better jobs—no, better lives abroad. At every farewell, we will promise one another to ‘stay in touch’ but who are we kidding: we lost touch. I cherish the annual calls we’d have, and all the big news (a wedding, a newborn, a new house) about them, but it’s simply not the same.

Oh what I would kill to be having those collective walk during lunch breaks again.

II. Most importantly: you have changed

On top of the list of beautifully tragic bases for missing (losing) a friend, is when you have radical clarity on what matters in life, and they simply don’t fit in that picture anymore.

As you get older, the universe will nudge you to get closer to your fully aligned self—it will put you in situations where your values are tested in the deepest sense, and sometimes it inevitably means breaking up even with some of your closest, most treasured friends.

This I think is the unique possibility unlocked in our 30s: the only time we actually could afford to be alone, is the time we are clearer about what we want, and what we find important. We have enough time to catch up and become better emotional regulators, we don’t have to please people anymore. Voilá, now you have clearer boundaries and therefore fewer friends.

***

In case not obvious: Attachment styles, as I discovered this year, applies to all kinds of relationships: your patterns of anxious, avoidant, or secure selves will show up in how you maintain your friendships, too. As someone with a ‘disorganized attachment’ tendencies, I am not the easiest to be friends with. I also tend to conclude/judge, prescribe solutions too quickly, and hyper-rationalize—yet in all my imperfections, I am grateful for the fact that a few people still find a friend in me, including those I haven’t even met in person for quite a while now: I love you guys.

So have that video call, that coffee catch up, that get together.
Life’s too short not to enjoy love in any form we could ;)

In the past year alone, the Indonesian people have gone through three cycles of protests: the Peringatan Darurat movement (August ’24), Indonesia Gelap (Feb ’25), and the Violent Thursday a couple of days ago.

Each time, three consistent elements were there:

• Act I. The fuck up
• Act II. The demand
• Act III. Resolution (somewhat)

In Darurat Demokrasi, the parliament was going to rig the local election law, stifling competition and allowing the President’s kid to run for Jakarta governor’s office (Act I). In response, students and civil society came together, storming the parliament’s building (Act II). For the first time, ‘non-traditional’ actors (influencers, middle class at large) participated, because we all had enough. We still remember that image of Reza Rahadian on top of the truck. At the end of it, Sufmi Dasco saved the day, stopping RUU Pilkada from being passed (Act III).

Things went back to normal quite sometime after.

Indonesia Gelap did encompass more requests, but it revolved mainly around the problematic RUU TNI which would allow the military to take over more seats in what otherwise should’ve been filled by civil representation (Act I). It wasn’t as glorious as Peringatan Darurat (perhaps people were still recovering), but the students got together (and mothers, and labors—I was there) and took up Medan Merdeka (Act II). The revised UU TNI was still passed, but the final version that was made public seemed to have comparatively more limited authority (Act III).

The bad aftertaste lingered, but we moved on.

What about now?

This time, we are going completely off script.

What started as the labor’s protest to demand for social security laws protecting jobs and minimum wage (among others) became…something else completely, something no structure could quite contain, and now we’re all over the place. We are scared, confused, and angry—oh so angry.

The movement is now firmly anchored in our collective memories of Affan Kurniawan, the innocent martyr who was murd*red for simply doing his job.
The movement has evolved into a deep-seated frustration about police brutality, and the lack of serious reforms in the past decade.
The movement grew to be about holding our supposed representations accountable; the ones who called us stupid, who ran away abroad.

What it should NOT turn into, is a senseless horizontal violence amongst the people, looting unattended businesses and civilian houses, leading to more unnecessary deaths.

At this point, we are faced with two options of ‘scenarios’ moving forward.

• Best-case scenario: Prabowo steps in as the usual hero, pushing for transformative reforms in the police force (and perhaps even DPR)
• Worst-case scenario (I hope and think we’re still FAR from this though, hopefully): things get so out of hand, Prabowo called for the military to step in

How we act in the next few days (and what’s going on in the President’s mind) will determine which scenario is more likely.

But even in this somberness, I hope that the remaining members of parliament who still has some sense in them (I know there are many) will carry this message to their colleagues and party leadership:

Every time the government fucks up, we civil society rise.

That you politicians only has power because we give it to you, perhaps in our ignorance, perhaps in taking things for granted, perhaps in disillusionment, but WE GAVE IT TO YOU and we can and will take it back when we have to. Our founding fathers and the 1998 students have fought—and died—for this right.

As for us the civilians: I hope we remember that we’re all in this together, fighting against the same enemy of corrupt and evil men (and women, unfortunately) in power. We are fighting for a ‘bare minimum’ government that ensures our freedom, that works to bring a fair economic system, and actually things about improving their people’s future and not just their cronies.

If Boedi Oetomo planted the idea that led to a ‘national awakening’ in 1908 and only 20 years later we came together with Sumpah Pemuda (1928), we might still barely be at the beginning of what we’re trying to achieve.

So here’s my ask from all of us:

• If you have influence, help others make sense of what’s happening. Deescalate the anger to a ‘productive’ level—one that pressures the government for reform, not just further destructions.
• If you have resources, go donate where you can; help the communities who are organizing movements or further collective actions.
• If you have energy and time, next time there’s a peaceful protest for something you believe in, maybe try and attend. You might be surprised that it’s not as scary as you think.
• If nothing else, share our stories on your social media or dinner tables.

Either way, there is an awfully long way ahead of us, that we need all hands on deck in this fight, across class, race, and geographies.

Let’s pray for Affan Kurniawan, for democracy, for the ideals that this country should one day be.

#SipilJagaSipil #WargaJagaWarga

It’d been a while since the last time I entered Eyang’s green-painted room—she was already at the hospital then, probably a few weeks left before she’d pass over to the other side. It was weird, to say the least: being in this room without her. It feels wrong. She had been bed-bound for roughly 6-7 years, so ‘visiting Eyang’ is practically a synonym for going to this room.

Today, May 13th, is Eyang’s birthday. It is also a few days after the first-year mark of her passing. If you didn’t already know, she was a parent figure for me, one who shaped me into the woman I am today. I could not have overstated this even if I wanted to. My existence, everything I have achieved in life—it was all her (well, other than my parents, of course).

And it recently dawned on me how I never fully shared her story.

1. She helped me discover my permanent love of learning
   Legend has it, we were walking home when I saw a Majalah Bobo on a stall, and how I wouldn’t go home without it. So she got me one—it’s the origin story of how I was able to read since I was barely three years old. Reading, as it turns out, is a key that opens the gate to the abundance of knowledge that I have been soaking myself in for the past 30 years. It was the lens through which I inch closer to understanding the world, a well that fuels my journey. But the ‘force’ didn’t happen as a defining ‘moment’, no—rather, throughout my childhood and teenage years, she has consistently guided me through every curiosity, question, idea, and opinion. She never told me to shut my ever-ticking brain. She loved singing to her grandchildren (we know today that it helped stimulate our brains). She made loving learning alright.
   
2. She showed me how to be badass
   After I got divorced, she didn’t rush into telling me to find another man ASAP. She casually said, “Nggak apa-apa juga kalau sendiri,” which was not what I expected. Indeed, since her husband (the late Eyang Ngget) passed in 1992, she never remarried. She said she’d rather channel all her love to raising her grandchildren. She didn’t make our existence as a woman to revolve around the men in our lives, that we could lead the life we want. In her more productive years, she was Ketua RW who made changes to how things were done, and she led many of ‘penyuluhan’ sessions for the women in her hometown (and where I was born), Cianjur. Even after she couldn’t walk and had to use wheelchair everywhere, she didn’t want to depend on others if she could afford it.
3. She introduced me to a God who’s reasonable
   I’d like to think that everyone’s spiritual journey is unique, and largely depends on who first introduced us to God. I was extremely lucky to have done so through Eyang. While I don’t always share her conservative views, in the big picture, she always told us that God would understand. Yes, we shall pray five times a day and fast during Ramadhan, but if we weren’t able to, God would not be petty about it. We could do it later, combine them, or pay in lieu of doing so. When I was 16 and told her I wanted to wear hijab, she asked if I were sure and that it’s okay if I weren’t. She told me I could always do it later, when I would understand better about what it meant, along with all the consequences. (Although she’s very adamant about not wearing sleeveless shirts, because Islam fundamentally required women to dress modestly.)
4. She enabled me in being competitive
   For every math, language, cerdas cermat, debating, model UN, and what-have-you competition I went to, she would wake up at four, do her shalat subuh, and prayed into a glass of water for me to drink. She wasn’t superstitious per se—she simply believed that prayers matter in determining the outcome, and this ritual manifest the spiritual into the physical world. She’d make sure I drink that glass of water before I left the house. Yes, I ended up winning many times but I also lose; it’s not quite about that—it was more about how I understood that these competitions mattered to her. Even more important than the prayers, she would come with me to the event and sat through it all. It was like she held my hand when I was answering the math sheets, or on the stage, all the way to the end. Her presence made a huge difference.
5. She taught me to share
   Every family has a different relationship with money. Ours had been one where we didn’t have that much to waste any of it, but also that it was imperative to share and help others when we can. As a child, I have observed her be responsible with every Rupiah that she has, she would note her expenses down and all before the age of excel or apps—but she also never hesitated to share. Whenever we have a little more rezeki, she would allocate ahead for different members of the family. It’s how I knew gift giving was her primary love language. She was always full of gratitude whenever I bought her things—not because she was materialistic, but because she understood the effort that goes into it.

Above anything else, I learned the importance of being consistent. In learning, in being self-reliant, in worship, in working hard, and in sharing. Way before James Clear, my grandmother taught me how creating systems and habits made all the difference. She would know exactly where things are stored and made sure that we put everything back. She always wakes up early, and had a whole routine every single day.

She was the matriarch we all respect, look up to, and love.

I miss you her much, to the extent that I badly hope the afterlife is real because I really want to hug you and kiss your forehead again.

At the risk of sounding ultra cliche, I know that she will live on in our hearts. I know that every now and then, I will ask myself, “What would Eyang do?”

Happy birthday lagi, Eyang sayang. I hope I have done you proud.

I see the irony, all right.

This post was written out of a cafe at the heart of bustling South Jakarta. To my left is a case of youth camaraderie—it was someone’s birthday so there was a (white and pink) cake involved. To my right, are two female best friends giggling while taking each other’s picture just because. Oh, buzzing friendships. Sparks of connection.

For a brief moment, from where I sat, it seemed like there was no such thing as loneliness. But of course there is, because how else would you explain this growing, hollowing feeling inside my chest?

What I know for sure is that it has nothing to do with being alone.

I have loved spending time with myself since I was a little kid. I would always prefer to be left alone with my Kumpulan Cerpen/Dongeng Majalah Bobo than playing with my friends. Growing up, I spent a lot of time being inside my head and was never scared of it. It’s when I am alone that I could be free, exploring every single corner of my mind. A healthy dose of being alone fulfills my soul.

So, is it a byproduct of rejection(s)?

Is it possible that, as a child, I was wholly and utterly protected by my parents’ love, that I thought of the world as this ever-accepting place? Then adulting hits: the inevitability of making mistakes that hurt others, who sometimes forgive, but other times leave. It often means wanting to be with someone(s) who may not see you the way you see them. Who chooses—or is forced—to not be with you. It’s discovering that people have expectations that you do not always meet.

Each time that happens, my heart’s corner chips away, bit by bit, perhaps slowly taking into a whole new shape that fits better with solitude.

Don’t get me wrong. I know we will never be able to please everyone—even ice cream can’t do that. But it does not necessarily mean that I don’t feel a pang of pain after each ‘no’; some cut deeper than others. Not to mention the losses that happened beyond our control: the deaths that took our beloved away.

Ultimately these things lead me to the sobering awareness that during those times I went into my cave of solitude, the world is not always there with open arms when I got out of it. At some point, the cave might have stopped being an option and started becoming an unescapable dead end.

Not having a constant—someone or something to go home to, to belong to—kind of puts the nail in the coffin.

As a child, my first constant was of course my parents and brothers, even today, I know that they will always be there, and I am forever grateful for that. When I entered my teenage years, it became my friends at school and university. Then it became work, what I thought was a lifetime of craft that I love. Then it became, of course, my ex-husband. But since last year, I don’t quite have anything. I was suddenly untethered. Afloat, with no anchor to ground me.

Maybe I lost faith that I could ever belong to anything ever again. Or maybe I’ve gotten too acquainted with the hurt that comes with it.

Now I live in an oscillating state of being afraid—both of belonging and of not belonging.

What will come after this? It feels overwhelming just to hypothesize.

[Just to clarify: it’s not like I don’t have friends who are there for me, whom I cherish and appreciate. But the kind of loneliness I’m talking about runs deeper than just lack of (even really great) companionship.]

Here’s a prescription that a wise friend gave me:

1. Embrace loneliness as an inseparable part of being. Maybe, just maybe, loneliness has always been sitting there in the corner of your heart (we were born alone after all). It’s just that only as adults do we have the courage, or maybe mental space, to observe and acknowledge it.
   
2. Do not take connection with someone for granted, celebrate even the most impermanent/short-lived ones. Once we accept the above, we will see the beauty in those rare moments of being understood. We will treasure those relationships—romantic or otherwise—as memories that make life worth living. When they end, do not resent them, but be grateful that you got to experience them.
   
3. Find that constant within you. While everyone would come into and out of your life as they please, know that you could always count on yourself. We have been conditioned, through fairy tales, that we were supposed to find that someone-ever-after, who will complete our soul and being. Speaking from experience, you certainly could still feel lonely while being with someone. Heck, you might be sharing a bed with them and still feel unseen. So here’s to appreciating yourself for being there for you.
   
4. That said, let others in, still. Give chance for that spark and connection to happen. I know that putting a heart on your sleeve is scary because you will find yourself hurt. But it’s the only way to make life worth living—by giving friendship, or any other kind of relationship, a shot. You will bleed, from time to time, but every once in a blue moon, you will come out victorious, and it will all be worth it.

Thank you for making my lonely world a little less lonely by reading this. I love you guys so much.

Wijaya IX, 16 Oct 2022