The Last One

It's been 18 hours since you sent your last message, an exact 18 hours of idleness and insomniac waiting. There's not so much for me to do than looking at the blip at the bright phone screen. Over and over I read your one and the last sentence for me, pondering whether this vague sense of eternal separation might finally come true in due time.  After all, it conveniently came at the weekend, when there's not so much works to run for distraction.

Of course, I've been thinking of going to the office which is within walking distance. There's internet (and with no one at the office I could use all the bandwidths for my pleasure). There's supply of cheap, instant coffee, too. There are also some security officers that may provide me with some uninteresting chats about football and silly politicians' antics that I would gladly endure just to kill time. But even these would not do much I think.
In the last 18 hours I've burned my cigarettes like a wildfire. I thought maybe if I burned this much I'd have killed enough brain cell to escape from you and your silence. Maybe if I devoutly burned this cigarettes like incenses I'd appease Father Time that he would come and save me. But there wasn't Father Time. There weren't dead brain cells. If any, this only gave me a bitter, raspy voice like Tom Waits on bronchitis.

This bedroom didn't help me at all. Whenever I tried to close my eyes, your image lingers permanently in my optic nerves. And so I decided to walk outside. The moon was a yellow slit not unlike a cat's eye. The sky was clear, albeit starless, with the air that bore a faint scent of mud from the last night's heavy rain.

Come to think of it, missing you is not entirely new for me. I still remember that day when you told me you were about to go somewhere that afternoon, in the coffeeshop by the airport.

"Where will you go?"

"I don't know. I'm still deciding. Most likely, I'll go somewhere randomly. You will know by the time I come back."

"So I can't contact you whatsoever? What if something bad happen to you?"

"Of course you can try. I just can't promise I can answer your chats or calls. Maybe you will get the clue of where I am going from the pictures I post online. Maybe not. You should stop worrying all the time."

You went almost a week to an indigenous community on a mountain, beyond the east of our city, the place where the imperial sun rise always greeted by the vast sand plateau. You said you were almost made a priestess. You said you taught school lessons their children. You said that the potatoes there were the best you've ever tasted, and the afternoon serene, and the morning dew you've always met when you woke up was as cold as snow. You came home with a lot of stories, but without answering messages I sent you.

You were always like that, either not telling me anything or telling me everything; everything, the truth, and nothing but the truth. Telling lies is not your policy. Often, at times, I was left with either the pain of not knowing or the pain of sharp words of your truth; either restlessness or anguish bordering on the depression. I know this too well, yet perhaps still too weak-hearted to accept.

But your last message cut me twice. I didn't know what drove you to wrote that, and I know once you wrote that you really meant the truth, which was quite hurtful to swallow. Everything was so fine yesterday, two days ago, even last week or last month. And my attempt to inquire you the reason was futile until this very hour.

Strangely, I didn't feel like eating, too. My stomach was as aimless as my feet. 

I hauled a cab and went to the supermarket. It was nearby, thankfully the driver didn't refuse because it's too short of a distance.

It was fully roamed by people, flocking like ants near the spills of picnic basket. I was looking at the fruits when behind me came a group of adolescents. I heard one of them saying something about the pain of shopping with women and the time it takes. It seemed like the rests of the group nodded in affirmations.

Supermarket, for you, is not merely a place to buy things. It is a feast for the eyes. You could spend almost half a day in there, and you're also the one who taught me this therapy. You showed me that there's a child in us who finds her kindred spirit in candies and chocolate bars; that there's a calming happiness in the ordered placements of fresh fruits and the bright green faces of vegetables; that there's some ritualistic satisfaction in comparing the prices and qualities. Even there's a quiet joy in seeing some stuff that are actually useless to your daily life, like that bottle of extra virgin olive oil, or balsamic vinegar. Every time you touch it you can always imagine yourself, being a world class chef, babbling about fancy-but-quickly-made recipe on a cable TV show. It shows you something that you can always try, but not quite, because you cannot take the risk of wasting expensive ingredient on half-cooked, failed dishes. That ephemeral dream is the beauty of supermarket isles, yet also its charm — a hypnotic one, if I may say. I sometimes dream of this one specific scenario.

In my dream I was alone in the supermarket. Its isles gave me a task (spoken in the air, in silence that I could listen) to buy something of no specificity. I walked from one isle, grabbed onto something, thinking that this is the thing that I must buy. But it said, still in silence, that it was not that. So I went to the second isles, scanning, taking the next best thing I thought would suffice. But it was not that. And then the isles showed me a multitude of, if not an infinite, possibilities of the thing that I could try to buy. An ocean of supermarket isles laid before my eyes. Infinite. Unending. When I took the next one thing, the lamps suddenly went off, and the supermarket closed. The time was up.

Today it made me lost once again, not in the dream but in aluminum-and-concrete reality. In the end I only took a bottle of water and a pack of cigarettes, never knew of what's best in there.

On the street outside the supermarket there were various food vendors. I sat on one creaky plastic cane chair while planning to make a decision. I found the food you really want to eat earlier this week. I ordered that food and ate it, even though the hunger was still nowhere. The taste was terrible. I imagined you would also said so, maybe even verbally express complaints, especially since your taste palate is much sharper than mine. I lit another cigarette and sipped what's left from the mineral water bottle when it dawned on me to look at my phone once again, trying to make sense of everything. I thought maybe I disappointed you in some way — in the sense that I am weak without you, in the sense that I am just a chunk of meat without you, and you didn't deserve this man in the form of me. Or perhaps you were trying to teach me something, that maybe in losing you I will finally find my strength. Or maybe it's that you are the wind, which can't settle in one place, always a wanderer. The time is up for me this time, and as the season changes, you will blow in the opposite corner of the world. The ephemeral dream may be over, and I have to wake up.

Under your last message is mine asking "Why?" It's still unread.

Pasar Santa dan Wajah Lain Dirinya

Segala sesuatu berubah dalam lima bulan sejak saya pertama kali menginjakkan kaki di Pasar Santa. Kios-kios di lantai atas yang semula kosong kini sudah nyaris semua penuh ditempati. Harga semangkok mie ayam yang saya tulis di sini sudah naik kira-kira 50%. Jalan Tendean - Wolter Monginsidi yang semakin macet bukan kepalang tiap akhir pekan, dari siang hingga malam hari. Parkir yang semakin semrawut, terutama oleh mobil-mobil kelas menengah kelas kaya muda kita. Beberapa penjual makanan di lantai atasnya selalu mendapatkan pembeli hingga antreannya mengular. Sementara mereka, yang jauh dari hingar-bingar hipsterisme dan kegaduhan  dari alunan vinyl mendapati bahwa keberadaan mereka di pasar yang sudah bersama dengan mereka selama beberapa tahun, bahkan mungkin puluhan tahun, akan segera berakhir.

Jumat lalu, hampir tak terdengar karena tenggelam oleh berita-berita Valentine dan perdebatan-perdebatan trivial tentangnya, belasan pedagang kaki lima Pasar Santa berdemo di Balai Kota DKI Jakarta. Hanya belasan, karena mungkin sisanya sudah pasrah begitu saja merelakan tempatnya di sana. Anda hanya perlu menginjakkan kaki ke lantai paling bawah dan lantai satu untuk mengkonfirmasi hal ini. Jika Anda, seperti saya, pernah berkunjung di pasar ini sebelum ia "meledak" seperti sekarang ini, Anda pasti tahu perbedaannya.

Setahun yang lalu, Pasar Santa hanyalah tempat yang begitu biasa. Lantainya kotor. Cat di temboknya pecah di sana-sini. Kios-kiosnya tak terawat, bahkan banyak di antaranya tak memiliki penyewa. Ia nyaris mati, jika bukan karena pedagang-pedagang di lantai paling bawahnya, beberapa tukang servis ini itu, warung-warung mie dan rokok, serta penjual-penjual pakaian, yang bersama-sama menghembuskan nafasnya untuk menghidupi tempat ini. Di pertengahan 2014, dua orang membuat coffeeshop di sini. Beberapa cuitan di Twitter dan foto-foto Instagram kemudian, Pasar Santa lahir kembali menjadi sebuah tempat gaul alternatif bagi anak-anak muda Jakarta.

Yang selanjutnya terjadi adalah pertunjukan paling vulgar dari cara kerja kapital. Semakin ramai pasar ini, semakin banyak eksposur tentangnya, semakin digilailah kios-kios di sini. Orang-orang berlomba untuk memiliki kios di sini, dan harga makin naik seiring dengan demand yang semakin tinggi. Dulu, ketika baru saja bangun dari mati surinya, setahunnya mungkin hanya 3-3,5 juta rupiah. Beberapa bulan lalu, sekitar 6 juta rupiah. Sekarang ini, saya terlalu malas untuk mencari tahu. Namun ia sudah cukup tinggi, bahkan terlalu tinggi bagi pengguna-pengguna awal kios di sini, sehingga mau tidak mau mereka menyerahkannya kepada kaum muda kelas menengah kelas kaya ibukota dengan kekuasaan kapital yang lebih besar (baik uang maupun social capital bagi promosi).

Dan jika cerita-cerita anekdotal yang saya dengar benar adanya, di sini pun kapital sudah mulai bermain mata dengan alat-alat negara – kaum-kaum borjuasi yang digaji oleh pajak tetapi yang masih menggilai tawaran yang menggiurkan dari kapital, seperti kucing yang tanpa pikir panjang menyerobot ikan di meja makan. Ketika beberapa pemilik kios lama tetap bergeming, maka dengan cepat borjuasi-borjuasi negara ini menertibkan mereka ("menertibkan" tentu bahasa yang eufemis sebagai ganti kata "mengusir"). Dan ada 200-an orang yang diusir. Dan mereka hanya diberikan waktu 2 x 24 jam. Mengapa mereka diusir? Karena kemacetan, katanya. Akan tetapi, kita semua tahu, siapa yang berjubelan membawa mobil-mobil pribadi mereka tiap akhir pekan ke Pasar Santa.

"Lho, ini kan perbaikan? Pasar Santa dulu hampir mati, lho." Anda mungkin bisa berpendapat seperti itu. Pertanyaannya, perbaikan bagi siapa? 150 tahun lalu, Karl Marx pernah menulis:

"Improvements" of towns, accompanying the increase of wealth, by the demolition of badly built quarters, the erection of palaces for banks, warehouses, etc., the widening of streets for business traffic, for the carriages of luxury, and for the introduction of tramways, etc., drive away the poor into even worse and more crowded hiding places. (Karl Marx, Capital Vol. I, bab 25)

Ini adalah logika yang sama dengan yang berada di balik retorika "kemampuan kompetisi" yang dipakai oleh kaum korporat untuk menjustifikasi rendahnya upah buruh di perusahaan-perusahaan: sebuah perbaikan yang hanya dirasakan oleh mereka yang berada di atas.


Adalah mudah untuk memaki hipster-hipster berkelimpahan uang sebagai biang kerok di sini, namun yang demikian adalah analisis malas yang tak memperhatikan kelas dan bagaimana kapital bekerja. Akar dari gentrifikasi – penggusuran kelompok yang mula-mula menempati oleh para pendatang yang bermodal lebih besar – datang dari fakta bahwa ekonomi (kapitalis) adalah ekonomi yang profit-driven. Pemilik-pemilik kios lama tak mampu meyakinkan dagangannya pada anak muda kelas menengah kelas kaya yang hanya doyan makanan/minuman fancy yang berharga Rp20.000,00-50.000,00 sekali tenggak, atau kemeja flanel seharga Rp.200.000,00 alih-alih kemeja yang harganya di bawah Rp100.000,00 yang mereka tawarkan. Oleh karena itu, mereka yang mengakumulasi lebih sedikit kapital akan dimangsa oleh mereka yang mengumpulkan lebih banyak. Maka perlucutan (dispossession) pemilik-pemilik kios lama adalah prekondisi bagi terjadinya gentrifikasi di Pasar Santa ini, dan merupakan konsekuensi yang logis dalam sebuah ekonomi kapitalis. Kemudian, semuanya menjadi komoditas dan diperas sari-sarinya demi keuntungan kaum kapitalis. Eksternalitas negatif seperti kemacetan yang membabi buta bukanlah prioritas selama kemacetan ini terus mendatangkan keuntungan. Malah, bila perlu, salahkan saja pedagang lama agar ada tambahan alasan untuk mengusir mereka.

Bagi mereka yang beroperasi dalam ekonomi kapitalis, semua tulisan dan poster yang mengajak penyewa baru untuk merangkul penyewa-penyewa lama hanya akan mampir lewat seperti aktivisme-aktivisme tanda pagar yang lantas terlupakan setelah lima menit. Dalam ekonomi kapitalis, satu-satunya keadilan yang patut adalah economic survival of the fittest. Dan satu-satunya kerja sama yang mungkin adalah kerja sama yang mendatangkan lebih banyak keuntungan bagi kaum kapitalis. Anda tidak bisa mengharapkan kaum kapitalis untuk bekerja sama dengan kelas di bawahnya jika itu tidak menguntungkan baginya. Jika semua rantai supply sudah dicukupi oleh mereka sendiri, buat apa mengikutsertakan para pedagang di lantai dasar untuk menyuplai bahan-bahan baku? Buat apa bekerja sama memberikan tempat bagi para pedagang kelas bawah ini untuk bersama-sama hidup, jika mengambil alih 3-4 kios mereka sekaligus jauh lebih menguntungkan?

Lalu jalan apa yang mungkin? Apakah saya, bagian dari mereka yang ikut menikmati Pasar Santa, punya hak untuk (dengan munafik) memberikan saran kepada mereka-mereka yang tergusur untuk mengadakan perlawanan – sebuah resistensi yang tak hanya ditujukan kepada pengelola pasar, tetapi juga di hadapan mereka-mereka yang mengambil alih kehidupan mereka? Lalu apa yang bisa diharapkan dari resistensi ini? Sebuah aktivasi moral di otak hipster-hipster pemilik kios tersebut agar lebih peduli? Saya rasa tidaklah mudah.

Beruntunglah, ada beberapa orang yang bersedia meluangkan waktunya membuat manifesto, yang "memohon"  pihak pengelola Pasar Santa (mengapa tidak memakai kata "menuntut"? Bukankah mereka juga penyewa?) untuk membeli beberapa kios sebagai semacam kuota/aksi afirmatif bagi pemilik-pemilik kios lama, menetapkan harga sewa wajar, serta memberikan hak untuk memperpanjang masa sewa hingga 4 tahun ke depan. Orang-orang ini diam-diam melakukan pendekatan ke pihak pengelola Pasar Santa demi kondisi yang lebih baik bagi para pedagang lama. Apakah ini alternatif yang mungkin? Tentu saja, apabila baik penyewa lama maupun baru ikut serta bersama-sama bergerak menekan manifesto/permintaan-permintaan ini ke dalam sebuah bentuk peraturan yang adil dan kuat.

Atau, jalan yang lain adalah melalui penguatan peran koperasi. Idealnya, semua orang memiliki kedudukan yang sama dalam koperasi. Selain itu, keanggotaan koperasi bukan berdasarkan kekuatan kapital, melainkan kekeluargaan. Koperasi Pedagang Pasar Santa, yang selama ini menaungi penyewa lama dan baru, dapat memutuskan kembali suatu bentuk kerja sama yang adil, yang sama-sama menguntungkan, dan yang mengikat untuk dipenuhi anggota-anggotanya. Tidak perlu menunggu alat-alat negara yang borjuis turun tangan, mereka sebenarnya bisa mengatur nasibnya sendiri terlebih dahulu.

Sebab, sudah ada beberapa menteri yang pernah blusukan ke Pasar Santa semenjak tempat ini menjadi Taman Eden bagi anak-anak muda paling gaul di Jakarta. Namun, bagi Ibu Imah, seorang pedagang pecel lele yang sudah 20 tahun berjualan di pasar ini, keadaan tetaplah tidak lebih baik.

Winter Sleep: Jiwa-jiwa yang Dingin di Kapadokia

Hari begitu dingin di Kapadokia, ketika salju turun di daerah yang masih termasuk wilayah Anatolia, Turki itu. Namun salju bukanlah satu-satunya yang membeku di sana. Dalam keluarga kecil Aydin, ada yang dinginnya lebih menggigit daripada salju. Yang satu ini dinginnya menggigit jiwa.

Winter Sleep (Kis Uykusu) dibuka dengan establishing shot lansekap Kapadokia, lengkap dengan rumah-rumah berbetuk seperti jamur yang dipahat dari tebingnya yang berbatu. Di sini, Aydin (Haluk Bilginer) mengelola hotel bernama Othello bersama asistennya Hidayet (Ayberk Pekcan). Tak hanya memiliki hotel, Aydin memiliki tanah-tanah di situ. Tak hanya tuan tanah, ia juga seorang intelektual dan mantan pemain teater. Karena kunjungan turis sepi menjelang musim dingin, juga urusan menagih sewa rumah sudah ditangani Hidayet, maka ia menghabiskan waktunya menulis di kolom sebuah koran lokal, “Voices of the Steppe”. Akan tetapi, yang benar-benar menjadi obsesinya adalah untuk menulis buku tentang sejarah teater Turki. Bagi Aydin, tak ada tulisan tentang sejarah teater Turki yang benar-benar serius.

Suatu hari saat Aydin berkendara dengan Hidayet dalam jip warna oranyenya, sebuah batu melayang mengenai kaca jendela mobilnya. Ilyas (Emirhan Doruktutan), bocah yang melempar batu tadi, adalah anak dari Ismail (Nejat Isler), seorang pengangguran dan juga mantan napi yang menyewa salah satu rumah milik Aydin. Ilyas protes karena debt collector yang dikirim Hidayet untuk menagih sewa yang menunggak mengambil televisi satu-satunya milik keluarganya. Selama tiga jam ke depan, film yang juga memenangkan penghargaan Palme D’Or di festival Cannes tahun 2014 ini membabar kehidupan Aydin, juga hubungan-hubungannya dengan tetangga-tetangganya, istrinya, dan adik perempuannya.

Kengehean Kelas Intelektual Borjuis dan Kaum Elit

Dalam Bahasa Turki, Aydin berarti “tercerahkan” atau “intelektual”. Akan tetapi, menjadi intelektual tidak serta merta memberinya kapasitas otak untuk berempati. Pengetahuannya yang luas adalah alat untuk mengerdilkan hal-hal yang tidak ia suka. Dan, seperti yang secara tepat dilontarkan oleh adik perempuannya, Necla (Demet Akbag), Aydin sebenarnya tidak suka dengan semua orang. Concern troll, demikian istilah yang tepat untuk Aydin. Concern troll adalah ia yang sok bijak dengan mengungkapkan kritik atau permasalahan, tetapi dengan munafiknya lantas absen, atau justru mengkritik upaya-upaya menuju perbaikan. Ia nampaknya peduli, namun sebenarnya kepeduliannya kosong, sekosong empatinya.

Dalam sebuah tulisannya, Aydin dengan jemawanya berkotbah bahwa orang-orang miskin adalah “wajah jelek kota”, “sebuah deprivasi estetik”, dan “pemalas”. Ada sebuah establishing shot pada adegan saat Aydin dan Hidayet menuntut pertanggungjawaban Ilyas dan Ismail atas batu yang dia lempar. Di situ ditampilkan barang-barang yang lapuk dan berkarat di depan rumah yang disewa Ismail. Ini adalah simbolisasi situasi ekonomi Turki yang melapuk. Sementara itu, Aydin menulis kritiknya tentang orang-orang miskin memakai sebuah MacBook, yang sekarang dimafhumi sebagai salah satu simbol kapitalisme. Aydin mengingatkan kita kepada potret kelas menengah dan kaya urban yang rajin mengutuksumpahi gerakan buruh lewat gadget terbarunya di sebuah kafe penyedia kopi waralaba – sebuah potret sinisme yang tak berperasaan. Dengan demikian, ia adalah manifestasi kengehean kelas intelektual borjuis. Dengan pongahnya ia melabeli mereka yang miskin sebagai “pemalas” atau “tak mau bekerja keras”. Padahal, ia lupa bahwa hidup mudahnya adalah berkat hotel dan berbagai properti warisan ayahnya, sama seperti kelas menengah dan kaya ngehe kita yang hidup mudah berkat berbagai privilese yang nampaknya luput dari penglihatan mereka. “Kerajaanku mungkin kecil, namun aku tetaplah raja di sini!”, begitulah Aydin memaknai hidupnya di Kapadokia. Orang lain yang sengsara, dan keadaan ekonomi yang buruk hanyalah nuisance yang mengganggu kenyamanan sang petit bourgeoisie.

Hipokrisi Aydin tak hanya sampai di situ. Sebagai intelektual, entah mengapa ia merasa perlu untuk mengkritisi semua hal. Ia marah pada hal-hal yang menurutnya amatiran. Dalam sebuah dialog panjang bersamanya, Necla lagi-lagi dengan tepat mengungkapkan borok pemikiran Aydin. Baginya, Aydin tak lebih dari sekedar misantrof yang tak konsisten dengan pemikirannya sendiri. “Aku berharap batas-batas membohongi diri sendiriku serendah punyamu,” komentar Necla. Menurutnya, Aydin membenci orang-orang tua karena mereka kolot, namun juga membenci anak-anak muda karena mereka seenaknya sendiri menerabas tradisi. Ia mengkritik para konservatif karena mereka fanatik, namun juga mengkritik para liberal karena mereka bebas. “Kau membenci agama dan orang-orang percaya tanpa sekalipun menginjakkan kaki ke masjid,” protes Necla. Dengan intelektualitasnya, Aydin menjadi sebuah tiran, dengan prinsip-prinsip “tinggi” yang membuatnya membenci semua orang di bawah dia. Dengan kepalsuannya, Aydin menjajah pikiran alih-alih mencerahkan, atau – mengutip perkataan Nihal (Melisa Sozen), istri Aydin – “untuk mencekik orang lain; untuk menghancurkan dan membuat mereka malu.” Patronisasi yang demikian ini mungkin familiar di linimasa media sosial, di mana seringkali dijumpai orang-orang yang secara refleksif mengkritik ini itu, senggol kanan senggol kiri, merasa paling benar – dan yang terparah, palsu.

Hamdi (Serhat Kilic), seorang imam yang juga kakak Ismail dan paman Ilyas, adalah potret lain kebusukan para elit. Di sini kita perlu melihat Aydin yang punya kuasa atas tanah dan ekonomi sebagai perwujudan pemerintah atau negara. Hamdi dengan demikian adalah perwujudan kaum relijius yang suka bermanis-manis dan menjilat pemerintah. Tak sungguh-sungguh, tentu saja, karena mereka juga membenci pemerintah namun cukup sadar untuk tidak melawannya. Saat Ilyas, si rakyat kecil yang paling lemah, melemparkan batu ke mobil Aydin sebagai bentuk protes, sang paman bersikeras agar Ilyas meminta maaf. Kalau perlu, sampai sujud-sujud saat mencium tangan Aydin. Pingsannya Ilyas di hadapan Aydin dan Hamdi adalah kolapsnya rakyat kecil saat pemerintah dan elit agama saling kongkalikong demi sebuah kedamaian yang superfisial.

 Rentenir dan Relasi Kuasa dalam Ekonomi

Kita semua familiar dengan tipe karakter rakus harta seperti Shylock dalam “The Merchant of Venice”-nya Shakespeare, atau Ebenezer Scrooge dalam “A Christmas Carol”-nya Dickens, atau Datuk Maringgih dalam Siti Nurbaya-nya Marah Roesli. Aydin pun dibuat dalam stereotip karakter jahat yang serupa, seorang rentenir dan tuan tanah yang menindas rakyat dengan bunga tinggi atau sewa yang tak terjangkau.

Dengan sewa tanah yang semakin meningkat dengan banyaknya populasi (karena tanah makin sempit), juga perbaikan dan infrastruktur di sekitar tanah tersebut (karena nilai ekonomis tanahnya meningkat), maka penderitaan kaum miskin adalah keniscayaan. Makin naiknya sewa akan semakin menambah kekayaan riil tuan tanah, maka manfaat ekonomi akan selalu condong ke arah si empunya tanah. Seperti riba, sewa tanah yang eksesif adalah bentuk nilai surplus yang mensentralisasi kekayaan kepada orang-orang kaya sebagai pemiliknya.  Ini yang disebut oleh Karl Marx sebagai “money aristocracy”: aristokrasi di tangan pemilik kapital. Marx juga pernah mengingatkan tentang bahayanya, “It does not alter the mode of production, but attaches itself to it as a parasite and makes it miserable. It sucks its blood, kills its nerve, and compels reproduction to proceed under even more disheartening conditions.” Apa yang dirasakan oleh Ismail, Ilyas, dan Hamdi dalam Winter Sleep semakin relevan jika kita melihat kondisi masyarakat dunia ketiga seperti Turki dan Indonesia yang terasing dari tanahnya sendiri, bahkan terusir, karena berbagai kepentingan politik maupun ekonomi yang seringkali terinterkoneksi.

Maka Ilyas adalah wujud perlawanan kelas proletariat kepada kelas borjuis untuk mengkonfrontasi kebusukan praktek ekonomi yang menghisap darah seperti itu. Batu yang ia lempar adalah katalis untuk proses transformasi sosial atas struktur kuasa yang ada di masyarakatnya. Dengan kata lain, batunya adalah seruan revolusi.

Hal sentral lain dalam film ini adalah tentang sedekah. Tak bisa diragukan bahwa sedekah adalah kewajiban dalam agama Islam (atau agama lain). Tak bisa diragukan juga bahwa sedekah dilandasi dengan itikad baik. Akan tetapi, Winter Sleep menyuguhkan perspektif lain yang seringkali kita lupakan tentang sedekah. Misalnya, bahwa sedekah bisa nampak merendahkan bagi ia yang menerimanya. Selalu ada pertentangan dan jurang antara si pemberi dan penerima. Kebajikan bisa menjadi alat penindas. Ada relasi kuasa yang tak mungkin dihapuskan dengan belas kasihan, ada harga diri yang terinjak, ada kemiskinan yang sifatnya struktural, dan sedekah tak bisa menjadi sebuah panacea – obat penyembuh segala penyakit – untuk ini semua. Film ini juga menunjukkan bahwa tidak mustahil bagi altruisme mewujud menjadi alat untuk memenuhi egoisme pribadi. Adalah egois sebenarnya, jika sedekah direduksi menjadi sekedar alat untuk menghapus rasa tak nyaman saat “aku” yang kaya ini melihat kemiskinan. Atau yang mungkin lebih ngehe, ia bisa “disalahgunakan” untuk menunjukkan bahwa si pemberi sedekah punya kuasa, seperti Aydin. Atau misalnya bila kegiatan sosial dilakukan saat “aku” merasa bosan tak ada kegiatan. Sedekah sebagai alat feel good  ini bisa kita lihat pada motivasi sedekah Nihal. Tengoklah panti-panti asuhan yang mendadak banjir kegiatan saat Ramadhan atau Natal. Bukannya apa-apa, sedekahnya tentu tetap baik. Motivasi-motivasi di belakangnya belum tentu mulia.

Para Wanita yang Terkungkung

Ada sebuah percakapan (yang lagi-lagi panjang) yang menarik antara Necla, Nihal, dan Aydin. Necla mengungkapkan pendapat menarik tentang ketidakmauan melawan kejahatan dengan kejahatan. Menurutnya, dengan tak melawan kejahatan diharapkan si pelaku akan merasa malu dengan dirinya sendiri. Aydin tak setuju dengan perspektif Gandhian ini. Menurut Aydin, adalah luar biasa bodoh untuk diam saja, itu sama saja dengan bekerja sama menuruti kemauan penjahat. Sebenarnya, ini adalah poin yang menarik jika melihat bagaimana Barat menarasikan seorang perempuan ideal.

Perempuan ideal, begitu seringkali dilihat dari kacamata liberal, adalah ia yang bebas dan menolak untuk menjadi “korban”. Ia adalah wanita yang memperjuangkan, bahkan kadang-kadang mengglorifikasi pilihan-pilihan hidupnya (“choices”). Dalam liberalisme, agensi personal ditandingkan dengan hal menjadi-korban (victimhood). Menjadi “korban”, dalam dalam definisi liberal, berarti tak punya agensi – tak utuh sebagai manusia. Tak menjadi “korban” berarti harus melawan, menjadi “empowered”, dan menolak menjadi pasif. Menukil kawan saya yang juga seorang feminis, Satrio Pratama di salah satu status Facebook-nya, dikotomi seperti ini terlalu simplistik dan terlalu mengglamorisasi apapun yang dilakukan perempuan sebagai bentuk resistensi kepada patriarki. Secara kontras, tesis antiperlawanan yang dikemukakan Necla melampaui dikotomi antara bebas versus tak-bebas. Ketika tidak ada jalan keluar dari penderitaan, ia lebih suka menerimanya dengan keanggunan. Ia menderita dalam kemegahan dan tanpa dendam. Ia adalah cerita tentang kesabaran bahkan ketika dia tahu dia akan kalah, dan dengan demikian dia menang bahkan ketika dia kalah. Dia adalah korban yang tidak berubah menjadi pemangsa karena rasa marah atau balas dendam. Dan ketika seorang wanita berubah menjadi penjahat, dia tidak menang. Sayangnya, kita melihat bahwa tesis Necla ini ternyata sebenarnya adalah preteks untuk rujuk dengan mantan suaminya dulu yang mengasarinya, karena sebenarnya ia lebih-lebih merasa terkutuk oleh kebosanan di hotel Othello daripada saat bersama dengan mantan suaminya.

Keterkungkungan ini tak hanya dirasakan oleh Necla. Nihal, sang istri, mengalihkan perhatiannya kepada kegiatan sosial karena bosan. Namun di luar itu, ia merasa bahwa agensi personalnya – kemanusiaannya – sudah tergerus oleh rasa takut dan rasa malu di hadapan suaminya. Kedegilan dan sinisme suaminya telah mengambil masa muda dan membuang tahun-tahun terbaik Nihal. Berkarya di luar akhirnya menjadi satu-satunya jalan berekspresi tanpa mendapat campur tangan Aydin. Maka wajarlah ketika Nihal melawan saat Aydin mau sok ikut campur ke dalam gerakan sosial yang sedang ia rilis. Seperti yang Aydin katakan sendiri, “Aku tak pernah melarangmu. Bahkan kalau kau minta pergi aku tak akan menghalangi”, Aydin memang tak pernah menyakiti Nihal dengan menampar (fisikal), mengatakan sumpah serapah (verbal), atau tidak menafkahinya (ekonomi). Namun bukan berarti Nihal bahagia. Leo Tolstoy tidaklah membual ketika ia berkata, “Tiap-tiap keluarga yang tidak bahagia, tidak bahagia dengan caranya masing-masing.”

Winter Sleep adalah perkawinan antara sinema dan literatur. Ia adalah amalgamasi dari problematika sosial Tolstoy, tema-tema kemanusiaan yang gelap dari Dostoyevsky, karakter yang kompleks dan multifaceted a la Shakespeare (lihat nama hotelnya), juga hubungan keluarga di daerah pinggiran yang sering muncul dalam cerita-cerita pendek Chekov. Bahkan Aydin, beserta hubungannya yang bermasalah dengan sang adik dan sang istri serta kegemarannya menulis, adalah gabungan antara Vladimir Semyonitch  dalam “Excellent People” dan Pavel Andreitch dalam “The Wife”. Keduanya adalah cerita pendek Anton Chekov. Begitulah Nuri Bilge Ceylan, sang sutradara yang juga menulis screenplay­-nya bersama sang istri, meramu Winter Sleep seperti novel-novel asal Rusia yang panjang dan kompleks, tetapi tetap filmis. Ada potret sebuah keluarga yang tak bahagia. Motivasi, pergulatan sosial, juga perkara emosional masa lampau masing-masing karakternya mulai terbuka seiring dengan narasi yang panjang dan lambat, namun kaya dengan detail. Kontur audiovisual yang sederhana – sinematografi yang tak terlalu istimewa dan musik yang minimalis namun masih teatrikal (memakai Sonata no. 20-nya Franz Schubert) – membuat kita memusatkan perhatian pada tokoh dan cerita film ini. Dan Ceylan tidak bergegas untuk bercerita kepada kita dalam konstruk dramaturgi standar. Alih-alih, karakternya teracak pada dialog-dialog yang bertaburan seperti salju. Baru ketika film hampir usai, karakternya menjadi utuh, bak tanah Kapadokia yang utuh putih ketika hujan salju sudah hampir reda.

Happy Birthday, N.

What have the years give you, dear? Two before a quarter century, and I see you grow up seizing days after days. You grew stronger, and stubborn more. You have accomplished so much more than what I have in my own time. Proud and still starving for more.

I am sorry for not being able to write you exactly at your birthday. My energy has been, quite simply, siphoned by works. In your sleeping hour I tried to write last sentences, but the night was late and sleepy, and tranquil yet, because you were there, and I couldn't bring myself to write. Watching you fell asleep silently, veiled by the red wine sky, was more beautiful deed than all.

I'm sorry that I don't understand (yet) about your hunger; that in satiating your passions you're willing to sacrifice everything else. Past few weeks have we spent arguing, debating, being passive-aggressive toward each other, and I still don't understand. We are a ship and it was just a rough sea. And I am - or we are - still learning how to sail and tame the torrential rains and surging waves that may come.

I was never mad because you put me in any arbitrary number lower than what you'd give for your work. But I was mad that you'd even give up yourself - especially your health - to your job. It pained me to see you slaved by your job, because in you I see my own enslavement. I was weary, but not because I demand more of your priority. I was weary seeing you work really hard, almost too hard, almost as if that your very existence is tied to what you give to the altar of corporate gods. Waking up checking emails on your phone, eating lunch with your laptop, having dinner with your working papers, and the cycle repeats itself. Almost a ritual. You dash forward, running to be successful, ignoring your family, ignoring me, even ignoring yourself in the process. But then again, you are a bristlecone pine that can only thrive in harsh winters and hard soils. I will support you, and be proud of you.

And there's so many to remember, easily exceeds 23 things about you. Ramblings, discussions at the table, every words, every hugs, every little fights, every thoughts, every quirks, every accomplishments and disappointments. There's so much memories about you, becoming a path for me to return home. You don't need my writing to tell you how many wonders you've done in your life. In my life. You are a grace I dare not ask for. You are a miracle I dare not pray for.

You once asked me of how will forever be. Forever is too strong of a word. An impossibility. So now let me love you. Let me love you even when I hate you, even when you hate me, even when the smog of this city has taken away our radiance. Because love is the forever becoming the temporal. 

Finally, happy birthday, N. May the wisdom guide you through the dark years and the light years.

Happy birthday, N. And may we grow old together.

Two Faces

Everything was well according to the plan: going to Pasar Santa again, having lunch in its wet section, buying used books (and Dusty Sneakers' new book!) in POST, then watching a students chamber orchestra concert. Everything was even better seen in retrospect: to be able to chat and to mock cheesy soap operas with the jocular wet market tenants, also to be able to snatch awesome classic books in cheap prices. The orchestra was good, too, albeit with some tiny, tiny disturbances. One contra bass player's chair was squeaky, the clash cymbals' sound was no longer crisp, and one cello had its strings slapped the fingerboard, producing "flappy" sounds. I'm not an expert in classical music or symphonic orchestra. Hell, I'm not an expert on anything. So they were not a big deal because the rest of the day was too delightful to fuss about small things.

What's not in the plan was this one event, the second anniversary of a reading community in Taman Menteng - a community I was just made aware of by Teddy. (And again, Nitha laughed at my cluelessness about it.) The other option after the orchestra was to watch Guardians of the Galaxy, but why watch something that you can watch later - either legally or illegally?

So off we went, after grabbing a dinner and feeling a little bit posh about ourselves.

The community literally named itself Komunitas Baca-baca di Taman (KBBT). Unlike its straightforward name, its history is rather murky for me. Teddy said that it was initiated by some ex-punk heads there. They ditched their old lives, collected some books, and invited gamins to read every Saturday night. The first three meetings were held in Bundaran HI. They switched place to Taman Menteng because it's quieter, it has more trees, and it's less polluted here, unlike the traffic-heavy Bundaran HI. The community then got bigger and attracted the non-members or everyone who happened to be there to sit and read with them. They make events with tongue-in-cheek acronyms: BiR (beer) that stands for Bincang Ringan (small talk), KuDeTa (coup d'etat) that stands for Kumpul dengan Teman (gathering with friends), and a discussion session called MiRas (liquor) that stands for Mikir Keras (thinking hard).

When Nitha and I arrived, the anniversary celebration had not started.

"Let's play swings!" she asked me. I obliged.

We walked to the northern part of Taman Menteng where the swings located. I laid my eyes to the pyramidal glass house. I've been told that KBBT usually takes place in front of it, so it's likely that their anniversary was there, too. But still, there were not so much activities in its vicinity. Amidst the couples on Saturday night dates, parents bringing their kids to play in the sandbox, cigarette-and-instant-drink-mix sellers on bikes, and some teenagers playing futsal, the glass house shone brightly, illuminated the park and its dwellers. From afar, where I sat on my swing set, it looked like the third world version of Louvre pyramid.

Taman Menteng was previously Menteng Stadium, a football stadium belonged to Persija Jakarta. In 2004, under Sutiyoso's administration, it was planned to be converted to be a park (the plan allegedly date back even further, during Surjadi Soedirdja's administration). It was very controversial. Some individuals in PSSI reacted with disdain. It even almost led to a conflict that almost disband Persija. 30 billion rupiah and almost 3 years later, it was finally open to public as a park.

Ten minutes passed. I said to Nitha, "I think they are getting started. Let's go there."

And there they were. There was this modest make-do stage in front of the glass house, on the side adjacent to Jl. H. O. S. Cokroaminoto. One man, wearing striped T-shirt and three-quarter jeans, played two-piece drum kit. The other man, a middle-aged man with glass, played guitar. He dressed in white Tshirt with batik scarf around his neck, singing some folks songs. A banner in black color is tied in trees. It said happy 2nd anniversary, signed "KBBT - Komazine". There were two other stand banners in white, beside those two guys playing music. One showed KBBT's motto: "Mau Pintar Kenapa Musti Bayar?" (why must you pay if you want to be smart?). The other: "Bawa Buku Buka dan Baca di Taman" (bring books, open and read them in the park); complete with a cartoon of bourgeoisie-looking giant boar in suits and top hat, reading book while stepping on the protesting humans to death. Red stars and the anarchists' Circle-As adorned both banners. KBBT is apparently a redemption, an educative facility for street people, a society of sharing, and a protest to despondent government all at once.

The books were laid on a mat on the terrace of glass house. We looked around. Most of the ones who came wore black T-shirts. The books were mostly Pramoedya Ananta Toer's. And surprisingly, the collection was very extensive. There were Mangir, Larasati, Arus Balik, Nyanyi Sunyi Seorang Bisu, Perempuan dalam Cengkeraman Militer, Arok Dedes, Calon Arang, and of course, Buru Tetralogy. Among Pramoedya's books, there were several editions of zine titled Komazine scattered.

We spoke to a man who introduced himself as Uu'. His face, his long hair, and his stature reminded me of Indonesian young philosopher, Martin Suryajaya. Not that I actually ever met Martin, but his resemblance was quite conspicuous. He manages both KBBT and Komazine. He is Komazine's all-around writer, layouter, editor, and illustrator.

Komazine is an alternative zine with strong left political leaning. The name was derived from "koma" (coma), which according to them is the most apt depiction to describe this nation: in limbo, coma, neither life nor dead. Its life force has been sucked by the corporates and the corrupt governments, leaving next to nothing to the common folks. Komazine is even older than KBBT. When KBBT was born in September 1st 2012, Komazine already issued its 11th edition. It has 16 issues to date. 

"How often is it usually published?"

"It's not regular. We publish it when we're able to publish. The next edition, for instance, will have to be pushed back to October due to some problems."

I held one in my hand. It dated July 2009.

Visually coarse and crudely illustrated, Komazine hosts works and writings from Uu' and his friends. There are writings about social protests, critics to government, propaganda against capitalism. There are also poems and caricatures. And what excited me somehow were the writings about Marx and Bakunin. With all the limitations these people in Komazine have, be it educations, budgets, and literature references, they succeeded in transforming themselves into political educators for other people. This autodidact, guerrilla education is very, very admirable.

I asked if I can buy this one. 

"Well, I didn't bring copies with me. If you want that one we can make you a copy. We have Twitter account. Mention us the issue you want and next week we'll bring it to you."

"Do you have the one that is for sale?"

I grabbed three issues. The young man besides me took one.

"So, how do you know Teddy?" I asked.

"Oh, he just came here one night. And we just 'clicked'"

"He was with Maesy?"

"Oh, the lady? Yeah. She couldn't stand near here, though. She had trouble breathing. Those dudes were smoking. I wasn't. I don't smoke."

"She has asthma."

Beside being used to finance its future edition, the sales of Komazine are used to fund the maintenance of KBBT's books.

"Are you not afraid if these Pramoedya books are borrowed but not returned?"

"No. We have a strict policy regarding this kind of books. It must be returned in the same day."

Nitha then asked, "What happens if it rains?"

"Oh, we're gonna save the books first. We'll wrap them, make sure they're not wet. Don't care if we are soaked by the rain."

The guys playing drum and guitar "stepped down". The birthday party was about to begin. To my surprise, one relatively new TV station also came to report. After asking Uu' for interview and for taping the event, the crew asked me and Nitha to be interviewed. Both of us declined. Nitha said to me that it's very typical for a TV station to find the photogenic ones. Apparently my blob-like appearance was camera-friendly.

"Okay, we're kinda late actually," says the MC, "most of us have gathered anyway. So let us begin!"

Like the books, the stage and its music equipments were collective good. Several people took the stage alternately. Some sang Iwan Fals songs. Some sang their own song bearing the same message of protest to government, support for the labors, and demand for social justice.

One reminded us about capitalism: "The capital is only owned by a few people!"

"Go back to Article 33!" sang one. Article 33 of Indonesian constitution is about social welfare: common endeavor based on kinship principle, ownership of sectors of production which are important for the country and affect the life of the people by the country, and utilization of Indonesian lands, waters, and natural resources contained therein for the greatest benefit of the people. The song conveyed the restlessness of the common folks seeing this nation's resources being exploited for the interests of corporates and foreign countries instead of its own people.

Mbak Tari, one of the performers that night yelled at the end of her song, "The women must fight!"

"The women must fight!" cheered the crowds back.

Socialism, feminism, anti-imperialism. What's not to like here?

One man, said to be the "director" of KBBT then gave his speech. He explained the manifesto of KBBT and its "Mau Pintar Kenapa Musti Bayar?" maxim. He said, our education has failed. He said, our education has been commodified and capitalized. He said that our government is apathetic about education, even more to the marginalized masses.

"Makan sekolahan gak bikin pinter!" (School doesn't make you smart!)

"Ya iya lah. Makan sekolah gimana bikin pinter? Makan apa lo? Bangkunya?" (Of course. How can eating school make you smart? What do you eat anyway? Its bench?) The man in batik scarf took the literal meaning of "makan" (eating) to heckle the "director." The crowds burst in cachinnations.

"Makan buku, lah!" (reading book, of course!)

"Buku apa? Buku nikah?" (what book? Marriage book?) said another. Another hearty laughter.

"Marriage has been commodified by the country!" said the batik scarf man.

"Marriage is a legalized adultery!" I said without thinking.

He conclude that KBBT is here to take back public space for public use. For better use.

"The public place is ours too!"

Next performers was Petruk. He recited one of Heri Latief's poems. After him, Uu' came to the stage and read Latief's poem from the very same book Petruk just read. I admire this community more. We live in a short-attention-span generation; the age where its youths fetishize gadgets and pop stars. This is the age where posting something on Facebook or Path is trendy, and poetry and philosophy are considered vain exercises. In the age where the refusal to learn is epidemic, who knows that our one of the beacons of classical education is in here, in this small park every Saturday night?

"The stage is all yours! If you want to perform anything, perform!"

The event continued. 

"Wiro! C'mon, Wiro!"

Then one group consisting of one girl and two guys. One of them - the one wearing AC/DC T-shirt - I presumed was Wiro. They took the stage and began singing Serenada from Steven and the Coconut Treez.

Nitha and I sat on the floor. We were offered some snacks, boiled cassava, boiled banana, and oranges.

"No, thanks. We've just eaten."

I took an orange. And in a very socialistic manner, Nitha offered her Cha Cha. Some people took and shared it.

The man in batik scarf sat down near us. He introduced himself as Cibal, a member of Komunitas Kretek, a cigarette appreciation community..

"So do you know Mas Puthut?"

"Of course! We had coffee last week."

"Do you know Iqbal? Iqbal Aji Daryono?" Nitha asked.

"Yes! Do you study in Jogja?"

"Naah, I'm not. She is. In UGM."

The MC shouted, "Next, came far away from Tegal, he's gonna read a poem!" His name was Deni or Dani, I can't remember.

I whispered to Nitha, "He came far away from Tegal just to be here? Wow."

"No, you fool. He's probably from Tegal and has stay long in Jakarta." She laughed at my naivete.

Then we traded stories about our mutual friends, about Klinik Kopi in Jogja, about Komunitas Kretek and its Ekspedisi Cengkeh project, about how attractive clover was in Age of Discovery, about Magellan and Columbus.

"KomTek is not a cigarette lobbyist group. We're not from industry side. We are an appreciation group. Every May 31st, on World No Tobacco Day, we make tweets with #TerimakasihTembakau hashtag, providing counter-narrative," Mas Cibal narrated.

He then added, "KomTek Jakarta usually gather in Tebet. Do come sometime."

"I will come some time."

He went and chatted with other people. At one moment he teased a man who brought his Caucasian friend, "I love national products, not imported ones!"

They all laughed boisterously, except the Caucasian. The joke was lost in translation perhaps.
 
The musics then shifted from reggae to slow rock to bluesy-folk interchangeably. Most of them were their own songs, and the message about struggle remained the same. Two faces of music I listened that day. One was the classic that - while aurally sophisticated - was devoid from any resistance elements. It was pure art. The other one was unyielding voice of the working class. It was pure moving force. And I enjoyed both.

I looked again at the stage, at this camaraderie, at the grass root socialism in action. They have been down the street, joining the rally for the labors in Mayday. They even walked to Russian ambassador, campaigning for Pussy Riot to be released. Then I wondered whether our intellectual left ever embraced them. I never studied Marxism extensively, and I know that our lighthouse of the left in Indoprogress are doing very great jobs, but it itches me that our revolutionary movement has two faces. What can this writing, for instance, support our comrades in Komazine? It's too complicated, too abstruse, too pretentious to relate even for me, and especially for them. Mr. Ali Sastro beats me to it in his critic here. I dream that one day both of them can have discussions together. I dream that they can solidify our educational movements together instead of patronizing, or worse, becoming a left hegemony (which is an oxymoron). 

For about 15 years, with not more than four people (Vasily Ignatov, Vera Zasulich, Leo Deutsch, and Pavel Axelrod), Georgi Plekhanov's early works were dedicated to write, to theorize, to polemicize, and to translate Marxist works into Russian. It was almost unheard, and it was not without critics, too. He was accused to divorce Marxism from its mass acts. But without his writings - as Ted Sprague from Militan once said - perhaps there would be no Trotsky, no Lenin, and no October 1917 Revolution. Building the intellectual and theoretical building blocks is of course necessary for a revolution in a country, especially if Marxism is still in infancy there. Without theories, a mass acts will be a bunch of reactionary agent provocateurs incapable of rhetoric, shaky in its ideology. And I am guilty of it, particularly in last presidential election. Frankly, in a hindsight, it distressed me to vote for a president whom I am actually sure that he will speak in a neoliberalese language, instead of obdurately staying in principle. But both Komazine and Indoprogress are both basically trying to educate the masses. Political education is difficult, but writing something perplexing and out-of-touch with proletarian life is not going to make it easier either. Maybe in this I am patronizing, too, but I believe that Komazine can use some supports from good folks from Indoprogress.

Uu' said the celebration would be all night long. Meanwhile, my friend chatted me to come over to Jalan Sabang and have some coffee. I asked Nitha if she's okay to have some coffee. She said yes.

Mas Cibal said, "There's this one good coffee in Cikini called Kopi Tahlil. Pekalongan style. It's made with nine spices. Nine! It's across Holland Bakery."

"Nice! Thanks for the suggestion. Will go sometimes." We excused ourselves to leave early.
 
I said to Nitha while we were walking to the parking lot, "I'm happy."

"I'm happy too," she replied while smiling, "I'm happy knowing that you have something exciting to do while I'm out of town for two weeks."

I will make sure bringing books next time.

A Weekend in the Market

His name is Teddy, and he's one of the most extraordinary man I've ever met. He is my senior from perhaps the most boring college in this country, which is made to supply fresh kids for the most boring jobs in this country. But he is not boring, far from it. He was debating champion, he quit from his governmental job to work in Save the Children and now World Bank(!), and he's one of the most prominent voices of travel writing/travel blogging in Indonesia. Using the moniker Twosocks (perhaps a nod to Kevin Costner's film), he started the travel blog The Dusty Sneakers with Maesy, his wife, who uses the nom de plume Gypsytoes on herself. They immerse themselves in every journey, they feel, they touch the places' history and their people, not only to indulge in sensory perceptions. And such is their trademark, to write story, not some paltry tips or pretty pictures. When my bro, Gita Wiryawan, protested Kompas for not putting Lord Nuran Wibisono in their list of the most interesting Indonesian travel bloggers, I think that, damn, Teddy and Maesy had been subbed, too.

(For a side note, on September 10th they will launch their inaugural book: Kisah Kawan di Ujung Sana. I strongly recommend this book. If you don't believe me, go visit their blog, read their writings. Tell me if you're not interested with their stories.)

Last Friday, through his Facebook, Teddy announced the opening of POST on Saturday, August 30th, 2014. POST is a 2-kiosk-unit space in Santa Market, South Jakarta, designed for creativity melting pots. Everyone can use it for gathering, discussion, book launching, garage sale, whatever. This is a Christmas comes early for struggling indie artists and start-up entrepreneurs who find that capitalism has encroached rent price, since they can pay for using POST in any price they like. And the event for last Saturday was traveler garage sale.

So, in August 30th me and my girlfriend, Nitha, went indeed to Santa Market. It was hot and humid Jakartan midday. Luckily Santa Market is not that far from our places. We parked my motor and, luckily again, we met Teddy right away at the parking lot. Wearing Navy T-shirt and yellowish-dark beige shorts, he told me that he was almost going home to take care the then sick Maesy. But he decided to walk us into a quick tour inside.

Going inside, we strolled directly to second floor. Teddy explained that the lowest floor is the "wet market" (meaning they sell fresh meats, fruits, and vegetables there). The floor above that is akin to ITC, a shopping center for clothes, bags, shoes, and perfumes, mostly counterfeit or cater to lower- and middle-class. Only, it is sadder than ITC. And the second floor is where POST exists.

Looking at the metal roof beams above, I mumbled to Nitha, "It's like that Phillip Seymour Hoffman movie."

"Huh?" she said.

It was Synecdoche, New York. But I refrained.

On the second floor, there are the Japanese vinyl record shop named SubStore, a coffee shop named Bear & Co., another coffee shop called ABCD Coffee (this one is quite famous, I'll tell later), a fried noodle vendor Miechino, a glutinous rice snack seller,  a Germany electric cigarette shop named Snoke, another vinyl record shop named Laidback Blues, a nondescript second-hand clothing store, and of course POST. Most of them open only in the weekends and holidays. They were still closed when I came that day, except Teddy's place, which was full by the traveler garage sale attendees.

"They will open at 3 PM," Teddy said.

We then sat down near the stairs. Teddy proceeded to tell that Santa Market's second floor is now transforming into a creative space for youths, with artsy style. I gazed around and nodded with agreement. The exteriors, typography, and designs altogether seemed to compose a youthful ambiance. Perhaps, there's no more fitting place than this for Midjournal, a website for "cool" Indonesian "middle-class" youngsters (no sarcasm), which, according to Teddy, is about to open its office here. Whether Jakartabeat and Indoprogress soon to follow its steps is unclear, though.

On the back, some crews of a major news channel came out from POST. Apparently its opening already attracted exposure from major media.

It was still crowded with garage shoppers. And maybe still will for this month's weekends. There will be a pop up bookstore, a music appreciation gathering, and Drive Books Not Cars event if I'm not mistaken.

"You can use it for gathering and pay whatever sum you like. In fact, you can pay zilch to me if you're that shameless." Teddy said jokingly.

Teddy's friend, Joan, who was also a superb debater, stopped by to the place where we sat with a tattooed man whose name fleets my memory. I was not sure if he was a debater or not. I forgot if we ever introduced ourselves, either. The tattooed man joins ABCD Coffee course. There are four classes taught here, he said, and their first letters form the abbreviation "ABCD": appreciation, brewing, cupping, and definitive espresso. What's a definitive espresso, I asked. He wasn't sure what, either. We chatted for a while. I bought Yusi Avianto Pareanom's book which Teddy happened to bring with him. Then he said he wanted to go home to tend Maesy, followed with me and my girlfriend saying goodbye to them all, too.

"I'll be back here at 3. Gotta run some errands first."

"Sure!"

At 3 PM when we were back, the parking lots were already full with cars. I was amazed with these young people. My girlfriend was not surprised.

"[Things] like these are not rare in Jogja." said her.

"Yeah, but hanging out in a traditional market? How do they even know this place?"

"How do you not know about this place? It is already 'hype' and well-known, you know."

"Pasar Santa? Really?"

"Yep."

And our guessing was correct, it was full upstairs, too.

All the tenants which were closed were opening. Coincidentally, Laidback Blues' event, "Pasar Ajojing" also had just started. A significant portion of the crowds might be coming for this. Hordes of hipsters and indie-looking folks swarming here and there, wearing obscure band merchs (Dinosaur Jr.!), pop-culture T-shirts (Star Wars!), or floral T-shirts reminiscing of hippies, um, sorry, flower power generations of the 60's and 70's.

Nitha and I went directly to the aforementioned ABCD coffee. Unfortunately, they don't sell iced coffee, even when this place was choking hot and its air was under-circulated. The AC central was only a remnant of Santa Market's glory day. Yet, we relented, ordering a cup of hot cappuccino and a cup of hot piccolo.

Many people were also gathering near this coffee shop. We sat by makeshift stools made from reused wood planks swallowing regrets of not buying cold mineral water. Joan and the tattooed man were there. Tirza and Denny (both were master debaters as well) sat next to us. Above us, there's a wooden signage with "A Bunch of Caffeine Dealer" emblazoned on it.

"I was stunned, never thought I'm gonna meet debating dinosaurs."

"Nah, we're not. Bubu is dinosaur." replied Denny.

Bubu, along with Perry, Patsy, Arif, and Ruli are the ones who brought competitive English debating to Indonesia. They are the Adams and Eve of debating here.

About half an hour or 45 minutes later, Nitha's order came.

"Too much milk." she remarked. I agreed.

It's a kind of unique concept, actually. First, the owner, Hendri Kurniawan, does not have a designated supplier for his coffee. Hendri, who is a certified barista and international level barista competition jury, brings whatever coffee beans he bought abroad (or given by his friends) as the ingredient. Thus, the taste may vary in every time he opens this shop. (My piccolo, which came 15 minutes later, had acidic taste typical to Arabica variant. Too much milk aside, it tasted different from Nitha's, somehow.) Second, ABCD coffee opens whenever it feels like it, so it adds to the aura of mysterious artisanal quality it has. And third, a tip jar instead of a cashier. Again, like POST, you can pay in whatever price you like. This one supposedly conveys a message that drinking coffee is an experience of sharing. But then again, when car-driving people around you dropped 50.000 or 100.000 rupiah bill, dropping 10.000 rupiah will make you either cheap and/or shameless and/or not appreciative in the eyes of the crowds. The power of silent peer pressure will make this shop a lucrative income source nonetheless.

We were hungry, so we visited Miechino. This noodle vendor's sign, a circle with vertical line inside and triangle on a third from top of it, all in red color, reminded me so much of Harry Potter's Deathly Hallows symbol. It was, so far, the food and beverage vendor here that was good. It was not overrated when Teddy said that the noodle was delicious. Minimalistic, with a splash of kuah (watery gravy) and sticky texture, but delicious. In fact, with only 15.000 rupiah a pop, it might as well be a godsend here.

The speakers from Laidback Blues blared acid house and trip hop musics. How very fitting, I thought.

"If we marry, I want these kinds of music in our wedding."

"Okay, so, no Whitney Houston?" I responded

"Yeah. And no Perri... Perri, what's her name? The 'A Thousand Years' singer?"

"Christina Perri."

"Definitely not her."

"Sure. We will make our moms listen to Aphex Twin, too."

We saw Teddy again, this time with Maesy. We introduced ourselves, and then they introduced themselves to new renter beside POST. There I saw Teddy and Maesy, being the walking, living social glue, mingled with almost all the tenants; a nice quality that I secretly envy.

The multitude of people and lack of AC still heated this floor. I yearned for some cold, cold drinks. Bear & Co. was the viable option.

Josh Estey, the owner, was standing behind the counter explaining to Tirza and Denny when we got there. In front of him, was a metal pipe of silvery color emerging from the counter. It branched into two, similar to what you see in hydrant. At its ends, there were two valves, like those on draught beer keg. The left valve was for tea, the right one was for coffee.

"I just got the nitrogen working this very morning. I made this counter by myself, from recycled woods. My friend gave the wood to me." he recounted with pride.

"What's the nitrogen for?" I asked him. I asked because from what I remember from my waking high school time, nitrogen is an inert gas.

"Oh, it's to make the coffee foamy."

"And you infuse carbon dioxide to the tea, like soda?"

"Kind of."

I asked for iced coffee, with lotsa milk. Nitha ordered the tea. They were 20k each. Same price, because this was the opening day. It was until very recently that Bear & Co. had its decor completed. Friends and family helped him, Josh narrated while making our requests.

Nitha questioned, "Where do you get the name 'Bear & Co.'"?

"My kids love bear. Hence the name."

He handed our drinks in plastic cup. "Thank you, Papa Bear!", said Nitha fondly. Josh chuckled. What a jolly sight.

She glanced at me while we walked away, saying "You gotta learn skills like that." As a person prone to faux pas, social niceties is certainly not my strongest suit.

We sipped the drinks in our hands, and we were baffled. This tasted not like coffee and milk, not even coffee, or milk, or coffee and milk in unbalanced proportion, or if it was diluted by too much water. This is something else. And I tasted Nitha's iced tea. It was another je ne sais quoi that didn't taste either like its individual (lemon, ice, and tea) or combined ingredients. So that nitrogen and carbon dioxide had to do something, after all.

We looked at the cup. Nitha said that the cups were hand-stamped by Josh himself, he told her. I observed this flock of young demimonde and their air of retromania once again. And suddenly an epiphany came: this place is a new Mecca of postmodernism and hipsterdom in Jakarta.

Recycled wood planks, hand-stamped cups and business cards, traditional snacks, and the artisanal coffee are the re-adoption of the pasts and the rejection to modernism together with its boring, industrialist, mass-produced commodities. It's an imaginary resistance of course. And these hipsters - which is a subset phenomenon of postmodernism - ironically embrace the proletarian spirit through the lens of the nouveau riches - the elitist, bourgeoisie perspective that they have. Irony is of course an inseparable part of hipsterism; a movement whose complete definition is still elusive to us. Is it an insatiable quest of being different from the hoi polloi, even though it is "mainstreaming" already? Is to be hipster to reject the calling of hipster itself, a perpetual "not me" attitude? Are these people, who try to make sophisticated observational comedy sketches out of ordinary situations (but sadly sound like lame dad jokes) hipsters? Are Puthut EA and Arman Dhani, our own stalwart, intellectual writers, trying to "hipsterize" themselves here?

It came to me that hipsterism possesses both objective and subjective quality in it. First, they have to be affluent, or at least belong to middle-class. Second, they must be quite eloquent, educated, and internet-literate. Third, they have to display their "uniqueness" or contrarian stance in some point. It can be in their attires, their favorite bands, or their uncaring attitude (ironic, I know). These serve as a marker of hipsterism as a stratum of culture different from "genuine", lowbrow culture embraced by the low class. Beyond that, hipsterism steps on the subjective realm. Dialetheistically, hipsters are alike and yet different in their own way. A person who listens to Pitchfork-endorsed bands like Miami Horror (this is my girlfriend) is a hipster for me, whose musical taste is that well-known Radiohead (this still makes me a hipster, too, though). Another person who loves to listen to keroncong or dangdut or Indonesian 60-70's musics or an obscure band from Tanzania is a hipster for both of us. But you can't call a Pantura trucker a hipster for listening to dangdut, for, according to hipster, it's a proper musical taste for them. Hipsterism's outermost layer is accordingly a personal last step of Hegelian dialectics: the synthesis. It is after meeting the antithesis in the form of le grand Autre, the self suffered from lack (manque) to project her ego outward. The synthesis therefore manifests in the radically different self from the big Others: the hipster. A hipster is a hipster in relations to one's concepts about herself and one's perceptions of how Others see her. Of course, I'm pulling all this seemingly sophisticated philosophical legerdemain out of my arse, but where else can you drop Hegel and Lacan? (And am I uber-hipster yet?)

But what justifies the 200-300% mark up or so for the tie-dye scarfs, or the wee traditional glutinous rice snacks here, even though you can find similar products perhaps one floor below? And it saddened me, to see these two worlds collide in this market. Below, the dreary, weary common folks, tired from waiting for the next customer. A middle-aged lady fanned herself incessantly with a thin book due to hot air. A man fell asleep on the floor near his counter. Perhaps, the whole day was wasted without a single customer at all. It pained me to look at this sight of contrasting vistas from above here; from the place where the hypes, the creatives, the differents, spouting buzzwords and making merry in their apparent "profound" style and musical tastes.

But if you ask me whether I will come here again next time, I'd say yes. I will also buy loads of cold mineral water from a vendor a floor below, to wash away not only my bodily heat, but also the guilt of being privileged and a concern troll at the same time.