Dear Piano Man

Dear Piano Man,

Not sure why I write this email. Maybe because I feel guilty letting our catch up time consumed with my silly stories (and oh that good 15 mins of me crying my heart out and losing all my guards). and I do want to hear your stories. But thanks anyway

So, what's happening in your life? You told me you're applying for PhD? Where? Which universities? What's the topic of your research? Are you applying for scholarship too?Did you read all the books I gave to you? Sophie's world? Le Petite Prince? If so, how do you find them? Is there any interesting bit? Guess, for me those two fictions significantly framed my world views, my narratives (although, the narratives, of course, are constantly changing)

Hmm, alright, guess I know now why I'm writing email to you. I need to talk to someone, someone... you. Today has been of a bit of emotional turbulence. I met with my professor who helped me finding and arranging my internship in Fiji (he even arranged accommodation for me, such an ace!!)He introduced me to some members of the organisation that I'll work with. It was nice and good.

Then he told me that T came to him and asked him to endorse her internship. Guess I was a bit irritated because of that. Feel like I couldn't escape this girl. And my prof hinted something like, 'I smell you both are so in competition with each other'. Hate that!! I mean now the whole school knows. I just feel it’s inescapable now, everyone will compare us. and I am not strong enough not to resist to be consumed in this pointless comparison and competition.

I am so afraid that I would lose my track, and ability to actually 'be here' and enjoy things that I have. I guess in competition, you always look forward to score points, to affirm your advancement against others. This is so pointless and will hinder me to have a genuine interaction. It turns my 'friendship' with T into self-serving interaction to satisfy a selfish and egoistic affirmation of fragile self-definition. Maybe i don't really have a friendship with her since the very beginning. I don't know

Well, now I feel better. I've put it into words and I can observe my feelings. I feel lighter and I guess I can start building up my effort to get out of this silly frame.I just feel sad, for the fact, that what I thought was a real friendship or at least what could have been a real friendship is probably a fake one. Will there be any real friendship? how could you tell? Will there be any sincere unselfish relationship? how can you tell? All these things with T make me even more sceptical. I felt I've been fooled.

Anyway, now I don't know whether I should hit the send button or not? (click it actually). I decided to send it, for I would like to believe, friendship can happen

Have a good day

Cla

Narratives and advocacy

It was slightly out of expectation. Policy Advocacy would not provide their devotees with practicalities of advocacy. There would not be tips and tricks in effective persuasion. Rather, it taught us different attempts to make sense advocacy, to dissect it and its assumptions, to look beyond what is seemingly an obvious matter. Before, I always thought that advocacy was straight forward. Advocacy for me was demonstrations, strikes or boycotts. Advocacy is telling the reality that your government is too blind to see! Indeed, they are examples of persuasion at play. However, advocacy is more complex and subtler than those examples. One thing for sure, advocacy is so pervasive in our lives that we are actually advocates, often unconsciously.

Yesterday, I met my boyfriend and talked about the military violence that is happening in West Papua, Indonesia. I told him how paralysed I felt for not being able to do anything. His suggestion is for me to start gathering support from Indonesian students and plan a protest. He suggested that I should write articles, to persuade the Indonesian Student Association to release an official statement to the Australian and Indonesian media. The key, he said, is to wait for the right moment, when the condition gets worse, to execute all the strategies he mentioned. Aha! That's what John Kingdon's calls 'window of opportunity'! All the strategies he formulated are perfect examples of persuasion as 'manoeuvres' of an advocate. He understood that I, an ordinary student, do not have a 'claim to a hearing', a prerequisite of Kingdon's policy entrepreneur. Organisation like the Indonesian Students Association and the media will help me to grab attention. Intelligent as he is, he never heard of Kingdon’s eloquent idea of policy entrepreneurs. But we can see how ideas and practical ways of persuasion are every day’s conversation. One grieve observation is, often to ‘sell’ your cure you must wait until your patient is about to die. Is that a justified trade-off? How can we tell the right moment to push our prescription?

Come to think of it, what he did is an advocacy in itself. He was persuading me of what he thought was the best ways to advocate my cause. He was performing an advocacy on how to execute my advocacy. The way he did it was to appeal to my reason or ‘logos’. He laid out the argumentative analysis of how those moves he suggested are the best ways I could possibly exhibit. He also has that ‘ethos’ dimension as an ex-journalist in Australia. He knows how the media works and to utilize it. Add to the ethos his charms and we can tell now whether I was convinced or not.

The question then is how to persuade the bulk of mainstream Indonesian students to support my cause to stop violence in Papua? Their ignorance frustrates me. For me, it is obvious that what happens in Papua are human rights violation, developmental failures, and structural discrimination by the state. The evidence is crystal clear. How could most people be blind to those facts?! The answer seems to lie in the narrative approach on advocacy. In fact, the concept of narrative significantly changes my understanding of policy advocacy.

Politicians often say, ‘Let me tell you a story’. Indeed, to understand the policy, we need to ask the story first. Narratives help us make sense of a problem by encompassing and interweaving disjointed ideas and values and justifying the decision and policy action (Feldman et al 2004; Fischer 2002). In doing so, narratives blur the boundaries of personal stories with grand theme of a policy and the grand narrative of identities. In narratives, we find a complex interaction between the personal, professional and the public stories. Narratives serve as lenses to filter the ingredients of our construction of 'reality' and truth; so called facts and evidence. Facts and evidence only serve as justification for our narratives; ideas of ‘reality’.

Born in an activist family, I have a different narrative from most of my Indonesian peers. My father was a labour activist during Soeharto era. He told me stories of workers who suffered under Soeharto’s policies and his military atrocities. When I was 12, my father told me that my grandfather, his father, was murdered by the military in 1967 because he joined the communist teacher’s movement. So I grew up with deep antagonism toward the government, the military and the dominant narrative of Indonesia as a national identity and a nation. My story is part of the big narrative of struggling victims of government, including Papuan rebels (or heroes?). Now we see how my narratives shape my previous understanding of advocacy. Individuals are the culmination of public and personal stories, a dynamic negotiation of many interrelated narratives.

In advocacy, often we need to change the narrative which neither easy nor quick. We need to persuade people to step outside their narratives in order to observe and analyse the narratives onto which they attach personal stories and public roles; to identify and question the assumptions of the plots and values embedded in the grand story. The next step is to convince them that our counter-narrative is worth adopting; that this version of reality will make sense of the problem, and solve it.

In Papuan case, this means questioning the grand narrative of Indonesia. What is Indonesia? Who are Indonesians? How did we come to this idea of Indonesia? How do ideas of Indonesia shape my personal story, my identity and political stance; my opinion on Papuan issues? What is my version of Papuan story within the story of Indonesia? The advocacy continues by offering, and convincing people to adopt the counter- narratives where Papuan rebels are the brave protagonists against cruel authorities; that current ideas of Indonesia and being Indonesian are misleading and need to be redefined.

Most people will refuse to confront their narratives, let alone change them. To question our narrative is dangerous, both at individual and collective level. At personal level, it shakes our self-definitions and construction of reality; the meaning of our personal lives and roles in public domain; our identities. At collective level, it disturbs our foundation of our imagined collective identity, collective actions and its ways of making sense of our changing environment.

At this point, I am so perplexed. If policy heavily depends on narratives, where that leaves advocacy? How to change deeply pervasive narratives? If evidence, truths, facts are instruments of our narratives, what can justify such advocacy to convince others that our narratives, thus our ‘reality’ and evidence, is better (or more real)? Policy Advocacy course leaves me incompetent in answering those provocative questions; questions that might never be answered, or maybe, should not be answered.

Home: A sanctuary of life

what is home for you?

Is it a place? For most, we associate home with a concrete building with walls and roofs, with door of which we own the key to enter in. It's stood somewhere where we can point in the map. It has address, either a geo-wise or social-wise direction (33 Antill Street, or next to the church which pastor was accused of having an affair).

Is it a person/persons? Family, friends, partners, kids? We say people at home to refer to our families. When we say, "I miss home", often what we mean is, "I miss my family, my comfort zone, people who love me and accept me the way I am, people who mean much to me".

Is it a memory? Good, sweet, comforting, securing, encouraging, warm, upsetting? childhood memories? the cute guy next door? when you and mom baked new year's cake in the middle of night? your dad planted a kiss on your forehead? that first kiss with your crush? all the giggles with your friends? maybe


What reminds you of home? A smell? of your mom's favorite perfume, of your dad's body odor, of restaurant next door spices, of cheap coffee-to-go, of minyak kayu putih, of a rose. A taste? of a tea, of beef rendang, of Indomie :D. An image? A song? A chant?

There's a sense that home should be a fixed entity, be it a place, a person, or a memory. A reservation that remains still, where we can resort, if we get tired of the ups and downs in life. It's always there, somewhere definitive of which we are all equipped with familiar maps and direction. So if Sally gets upset about something, she only needs to think of that sweet memory of her 17th birthday.

I don't know, I am not as lucky as Sally. I have bits of all those things, at the same time, none of them. I don't feel belong to any association with home. Medan, it's no longer feel home to me (come to think of it, I wonder, if I ever felt Medan my home?). Jogja, hmm, it's always there, its door always opens. Once I forced it to be my home, tried to shape it, change it, tailor it to my definition of home. I lost. Jogja doesn't feel like home yet, I always want to come back. Tokyo, I don't think it has a place for me there and vice versa. Canberra, it's comforting but don't feel belong here.

Family, friends? Well, I am an emotionally independent person. I love them, truly. I just don't feel like coming back. I miss them sometimes, but honestly, what's more important for me is for them to live a happy, fulfilling, peaceful lives without me. I'll love them from a far, sincerely.

So what's home for me? Life for me is a journey of constantly refined destination, it's about getting there not being there. I guess if home is where your heart is, it's within me all the time. The life is my heart. My home is on the road, the path, the journey I take. A moving sanctuary of life.

1 Anno Canberrae

It's one year in Canberra (2 days ago, more precisely)

So much has happened since June 3rd 2010. I think a year in Canberra has offered me many opportunities to learn so many aspects of life, not only in academic stuff, but more importantly real life lessons.

I've met so many people from different backgrounds and I cherish each of them, even the one who did some harm to me. I think, each person life has brought to me, taught me essential clues that I should learn to proceed my journey.

I lost some good connections. The distance between me and some people were widened for better. It's a difficult lesson to understand that, sometimes, things are better left abandoned. I guess, it's a part of knowing when to let go, when to fight for maintaining the relationship, and when to change the relationship. Knowing that sometimes things and relationships take on their nature courses, and there's completely nothing wrong with that.

Nevertheless, I also have been trying to maintain good relations and to connect and interact more genuinely, less selfishly, with many once-strangers: a lovely perfectionist lady in Islamabad, a skeptic yet hopeful Vietnamese girl, a sarcastic yet encouraging academic adviser, a patience atheist-biologist, an arrogant yet gentle musical theologists, an enthusiast Chinese faith-seeker, a coffee-addict Egyptian girl, an ex journalist who is obsessed in Indonesia, a friendly yet muscly Pakistan, a helpful Bhutanese guy, and an Afghan boy who couldn't stop laughing. These are the people that Canberra has kindly introduced me and I hope the list will keep on going. Interacting with people and listening to their stories are, for me, the way to celebrate life that I am forever grateful for.

For these people, the lessons they've been teaching me, for many other reasons, and for people and lessons to come:

to Canberra, I say thank you
to God, I say thank you

and to these once-strangers, I say thank you, friends :))

The Pain of Silence

Pain comes in silent, and we suffer silently.

It was an usual sunday morning. Some new faces at church except the fact that there were tw0 young people who would re-affirm their faith, and one guy -the piano player- who would become the member of Australian Uniting Church. I personally, don't really understand the implication of being a member and don't really see the points of reaffirming your faith in public.

In the beginning of the sermon, I went outside, gathered couple of kids to play with. Oh well, we weren't actually playing. I didn't have any plan for them. So it was kind of impromptu things. I decided to tell the story of the Good Samaritan. I am not a bad story teller, if I should say so, :D. I asked them to imagine the case where they passed a street, found this half-naked-tortured man while they were in a rush to meet a beautiful lady (note: the kids were all male, note: please don't allege me suggesting sexual attraction too early). They gave quite honest and logical answer. One said he didn't know what to do, while the other said that he would call his waiting friend and explained the situation. Well done boys!!!

As we were about to wrap up, a man came out of the church and talked to one of my boys. I listened something like, 'I'll meet you soon, don't worry'. I interrupted and asked the man of what was happening. He said that he needed to go to hospital or called an ambulance as he had this pain in his chest. So I asked to sit and called 000. To sum up, in less than 10 minutes, an ambulance came. The man was examined and monitored and he had arranged his relatives to take care of his son (some people who were in the church as well at that time). The kid was a bit disoriented after that. He was quiet during our sunday school but I could tell that he was a bit confused of what happened at that time. After the worship finished, the ambulance took off and brought the man to the hospital.

All these things happened pretty quick and calmly, almost inaudible by those in church. No one in the church noticed, let alone asked what the hell was an ambulance doing in front of the church. We called an ambulance, the kids were a bit terrified, ambulance came, paramedics diagnosed him, monitored him, took him off. And within the same place, about 80 people prayed, listened to the sermon, reaffirmed their faith, sang hymns, chatted, exchanged news, and felt refreshed.

For me it feels like, each of us suffers our own pain and we are suffering in silence. Quietly the pain seeps into our life, sometimes not by our own choosing. In some contexts, those who are close to us, might feel our torments to certain degree, but no matter how close they are, our miseries are properties of our isolated being.

In contrast, happiness is most of the times louder than misery. Look at the celebration of royal wedding. We shout, we sing, we scream, we laugh, we clap sharing the joy. Maybe, just maybe, outvoiced by our celebrating sound, some people or even the supposedly happy bride and groom, were crying in their heart.

The sound of our joy has successfully covered the quiet voice of crying people in Syria, Libya, the silent agony shared by those who lost their loved ones in Alabama. It's always the case that those who win the battle will roar, and those who lose will surrender in the inexpressible and unspoken state of defeat.

As the world keeps on moving, the earth keeps on rotating in silent, undisturbed by the fact that each of us suffers the unpronounced, inarticulate, aphonic grieve and anguish, in silent.