34, and aching

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I gasped and opened my eyes.

The same white ceiling. The same faint hum of the water pump. The same familiar ache along my back. I reached for my phone, groggily. It’s 1 PM.

For days a thought has been circling in my mind. Words from a close friend many years ago, back when we were still young. “Birthdays are meaningless,” he once said, with firm derision. “Just another number to signal decay.”

He has always been a pessimist about life; celebrations never moved him, and he often lamented the sheer length of living.

For years my experience insisted on the opposite. Glass half-empty that I am, I still find myself cherishing the ephemeral. The warmth of family, the cheer from close friends, the small gestures, the wishes and visions of futures; those are what let birthdays shimmer, however briefly. And ever since dad died on my birthday 16 years ago, it has been impossible not to see the date as some kind of meaning, however unwanted. His last, strange parting gift.

But lately—this year, especially—my close friend’s words have resonated with me. Much more than I wished they would. Maybe it’s the illness. Maybe dissatisfaction with how life has unfolded lately. Something in me has shifted the way I tune the rhythm of days. I keep wondering what it means to mark the day I entered this world, and to count the years since the one who gave it to me left.

My separated-by-parents “twin sister” seemed to celebrate hers cheerfully. The Instagram photos made the bright restaurant look gentle. The kind of space where no pain was allowed entry. In a rare moment of preparedness, I had already wrapped presents for her, and for her daughter. I checked her picture again. Her familiar bright smile. Something resembling contentment embraced my heart, briefly. Then I scrolled a little further, running straight into the announcement of a fellowship I once meant to apply for.

Right.

Lately, birthdays feel more like a diligent note of wasted time and missed opportunities. A body collecting small malfunctions; a life sculpted by griefs. Deadlines pass, and age limits march closer. Everything is always for the thirty-five-and-under. My expiration date already floats above my head.

Last night I dreamt of my ex. A dim cafe, glowing faintly like an aquarium. The kind that she loved. The air smelled of jasmine, still white but beginning to bruise at the edges. The scene felt familiar but alien at the same time. She said nothing, and neither did I. Like the jasmine, we were reaching for something past its season. The dream ended before anything meaningful happened.

My back still ached. I hadn’t jotted the dream down in time, and most of it had already faded. I went downstairs. The house felt older. The paint on the wall looked browner than usual, decaying like something diseased.

Mom moved slowly in the kitchen. Her dizziness hadn’t lifted, but the tables were already wiped, the clothes already folded. My brother was still gone. Day two of Comifuro. She looked at me with her usual gentle smile. “Someone is having a birthday,” she said. “But your brother’s not here. Let’s celebrate tomorrow.”

I nodded. I asked if she wanted anything. She said no, and returned to bed. The dizziness clung to her. Still she insisted that work helped calm the mind. Workaholic as ever.

We talked a little before she slept. I sat there afterwards, trying to will myself into the tasks I was supposed to do today. But the weight of the birthday sat heavier than expected. My to-do list stared at me like an angry boss eager to fire me, and I wasn’t brave enough to defend myself from his baseless fury. I closed my notes. My gaze was fixated on the TV, stuck on an endlessly looping Netflix trailer.

Instagram dragged me back to my phone. A post about Ragnarok Online flickered by, its theme song rising in memory like something soaked in dust. A brief nostalgia surfaced. It stirred a familiar sensation in my chest. A stroke of delight that almost resembled sparks from fireworks.

But it quickly dwindled into the kind of chill that reminds you how far those years have slipped. The friends, the family, the versions of myself I can’t revisit. I reposted it, hoping something in me would wake. But like the bruised edge of a jasmine petal, I soon realised I was reaching for something far past its season.

I put my phone down. Once again, I let myself sink into the TV screen. Now with a solemn emptiness, I drowned in the flashes of action and the muted blasts of sound. The same scenes looping endlessly. It felt like a reflection of my own dull repetitions. The losses I can’t seem to pull myself out of, no matter how often I try, only to be dragged back again like a stuck replay button.

I closed my eyes.

But the world stayed where it was.

Almost every year I try to write something on this date, even when there’s nothing to record. A small ritual against forgetting, I suppose.

Dad once said a birthday is an opening: a new book laid bare, its unwritten pages carrying the faint smell of paper, inviting us toward whatever adventure might unfold. I try to believe him. But some days, like today, it feels more like attending the slow fading of autumn. Quiet, inevitable, not entirely unwelcome; yet an ending nonetheless. That unwritten book seems to have slipped somewhere between fallen, rotting leaves, soon to be buried by snow. Perhaps its pages already softened and torn by weather before a single word could be written.

Maybe, someday, I’ll reach for that book and give its blank pages the adventure dad always thought I would.

Someday.

Mestikah Khawatir Menghadapi AI Generatif? 

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Kecerdasan buatan generatif atau AI generatif (Gen AI), seperti ChatGPT, semakin banyak diminati sebagai teman mengobrol untuk mengatasi kesepian, tetapi banyak yang mulai khawatir atas dampaknya. Menarik mencermati tulisan Okki Sutanto (Kompas, 10 Mei 2025) berjudul ”AI, Kemalasan Berpikir, dan Kesepian”.

Menyitir riset MIT Media Lab (2025), Okki mewaspadai bahaya ketergantungan pada AI generatif dan kemungkinannya menggantikan hubungan dengan manusia. Senada dengan Okki, tulisan Barbara Sahakian dan Christelle Langley (The Conversation, 15 Mei 2025) menyarankan untuk melupakan AI generatif dan kembali ke membaca buku untuk mengatasi kesepian.

Tepatkah kekhawatiran itu? Banyak dari tulisan serupa menjadikan kemampuan berpikir kritis dan mengelola hubungan sejati dengan manusia sebagai tawaran solusi menghadapi AI generatif. Meski kekhawatiran ini bisa dipahami, menyebutnya sebagai ‘ketergantungan AI’ sepertinya kurang tepat. Yang menjadi masalah bukan AI, tapi pola interaksi dengan teknologi digital yang dibentuk dua dekade terakhir.

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Funerals

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Graveyard under a cloudy weather
TPU Penggilingan Rawamangun, 7 April 2025. Photo: Pradipa PR.

Attending funerals have always felt strange to me. I have always been under the impression that they were meant to commemorate the dead. But attending them here, in the Muslim tradition of Jakarta, they feel more like affairs of the living rather than for the deceased.

7 April 2025. I went to the funeral of my aunt’s husband’s mother, with my brother. We arrived a little earlier than the body. A few people were already gathered, waiting. It was just a week after Eid. People exchanged Eid greetings, caught up on each other’s lives. Smiles, laughs, selfies, and pleasant conversations were shared as graves of the dead surrounded us, and an open one lay ready to receive another body. The sky was grey, prepared for rain. It was atmospherically somber, yet people exchanged warmth nonetheless.

A funeral is a reminder of our short time on Earth, and a preparation for our turn to enter the afterlife. The Islam that I was taught is relentless in reminding me of this. “This worldly life is no more than play and amusement.” (QS 6:32) Graves are reminders that we too will be buried six feet under. But I don’t always feel this during funerals.

The body arrived as it started raining.

People hurried to the tent, trying to avoid the downpour. The ritual started. Chants were recited as the body was prepared, prayed over for the last time, and finally buried. We stood outside the tent; there was no more space inside. The pleasant faces turned into mourning. But some seemed more anxious about the heavy rain. A mother whispered to her child about going home soon. Others recorded the burial, and a few more took selfies.

The scene was not unfamiliar, but it left me puzzled still. What are we supposed to feel at a funeral? Death is heavy, and burial is the culmination of a life’s passing. Yet there seems to be a slight disconnect between the somberness of the moment and people’s gestures. Are selfies and recordings, too, a form of mourning?

I thought of my uncle and his family, wondering what they felt about their loss. My mind drifted back to my own grandfather’s funeral.

The day was brighter, and the crowd larger. But like my uncle, my grandfather was Sundanese. The funeral was similarly swift – it had to be concluded on the same day as the death. I hadn’t finished grieving as I watched his body buried. Family and relatives surrounded me, perhaps each carrying their own way of mourning. But alone, I cried loudly by his grave. An older man approached, gently reminding me not to display such explosive emotion. A Muslim must remain composed, he said.

The clerics, indeed, kept saying my grandfather passed on a Friday, a blessed day for Muslims. He died free of debt, with dignity. Certainly, from this view, his was a good death. But I know a cardiac arrest is anything but good. It is painful and cruel. A death from burning body and fading consciousness. A death that could have been avoided, had he received proper care and attention to his medication.

Wasn’t it reasonable, then, to feel such remorse, grief, and anger? Why should I be composed? The world felt unfair, I thought. I didn’t feel the need to justify loss with social expectations and scripts. As a part of my world crumbled, everything felt dark and blurry. I didn’t want to weep alone, I thought. Yet, at that moment, I felt like I did.

I was brought back to the funeral of my uncle’s mother as I realised the heavy rain had stopped.

The body had been buried. I watched her husband and her son, my uncle. I am reminded of the intense emotion I felt back in my grandfather’s funeral, and thought they might express it the same. But instead I saw a resigned smile on both their faces. No visceral, uncontrollable emotion. I stopped and pondered. Perhaps because the logistical burdens of the funeral were finally over. Perhaps because her long sickness had finally ended. Perhaps, too, because their faith, which they hold deeply, reminded them about the necessity of composure in the face of death.

People began to leave soon after. Within minutes, only a few were left. My brother and I were also advised to go home.

A life was lost that day. A life that mattered deeply to those around her. A loss that feels heavy, painful. At least I feel it’s supposed to be so. Decades of human experience and memory have crossed into the unknown, into a realm where only God and His angels can bear witness.

But everything felt logistical.

I did not know her well, and now I never will. But even so, I expected a deeper weight in the air, an emotional burden that should have filled the space at a funeral. Maybe such weight only lingers, and perhaps expressed not during the burial, but in the days, months, or even years to come. In spaces more private, moments more intimate. For the public, perhaps it is all about the logistics, and managing social affairs and expectations.

And yet, despite all of these emotions, as I offered my condolences, I remained imprisoned in awkwardness; a limited gesture of grief and sorrow that could only take the form of, “turut berduka cita.” Such an almost formulaic words that could never carry the weight of the unsettling, unfinished emotions I felt as I grappled with the death of others.

Death, of anyone, has always felt troubling and uneasy for me. The feeling of strangeness coming out of funerals perhaps only an extension of the unsettledness that I feel about death. There are countless reminders of the social scripts I must follow in facing such a moment. But I never feel ready.

Are you coming home?

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It was only a few months into my mom’s cancer treatment when I watched Black Mirror Bandersnatch. In the living room of my aunt’s place I sat, where my mom stayed during those early days of treatment. Through a 55″ Samsung smart TV my uncle just bought, I played with the film, sitting on an old sofa where I used to spend with my late grandma. It was all a strange juxtaposition against the expensive cancer treatment my mom would face later, something we had not foreseen. And Bandersnatch only adds to this uncanny dreamlike unease I carried, as I grappled with the graveness of her illness.

I spent two and a half hours with Bandersnatch.

I unlocked the “Toy Ending.” It had Stefan revisiting his last moments with his mom. She was waiting, ready to leave with a train. In real life, mom left without Stefan as he was too busy with his toy, then passed away in a tragic accident. In revisitation of this memory, Stefan grabbed his toy instead. Knowing what awaited, he took her hand and followed her.

Laurie Anderson’s O Superman plays.

The blue-ish hue of the VHS-esque screen flickered to yellow, like a monitor degrading due to long exposure to sunlight. Stefan and mom descend the stairs. They sit together on the train. He clutches his toy; she gazes out the window. Contentment softens their faces. Stefan closes his eyes. In real life, Stefan is declared dead. He knew where they were going.

I was brought back to 15 November 2009. I think it was 11 PM. I was massaging dad, sick from his chemo. My class was at 8 AM the next morning. None of us spared meaningful words, only dad’s occasional painful grunts broke the silence. In that moment, for a fleeting second, I felt it: the weight of grief waiting for me. I knew this could be our last moment.

16 November 2009. I was walking down the asphalt, catching my class. My phone rang. Dad was gone.

It was almost at the end of July 2023 when I watched Black Mirror Bandersnatch. In the living room of my aunt’s place I sat, where my mom stayed during those early days of treatment. Through a 55″ Samsung smart TV my uncle just bought, I played with the film, sitting on an old sofa where I used to spend with my late grandma. It was all a strange juxtaposition against the expensive cancer treatment my mom would face later, something we had not foreseen. And Bandersnatch only adds to this uncanny dreamlike unease I carried, as I grappled with the graveness of her illness.

O Superman was still playing as memories of my dad surged unbidden. Then, just as sharply, they gave way to a heavier dread: my mom is now facing the same cancer he had, if not worse.

My mind wandered. I was fleeting somewhere, half-conscious, perhaps, dreaming of Stefan’s “Toy Ending” happening to myself. I was taken to the cold hospital room. The doctor’s methodical explanation first gripped my heart, then my head. From between mom’s lungs, the cancer grew swiftly, insidiously. Spreading through her bones like a fire seeking fuel. Slight movement could send pain coursing through her, as if the simple joy of living had been violently stolen.

Minutes seemed to freeze as my thoughts raced to the past. To her first medical checkup. To the visits we made after that. To the early signs — subtle exhaustion, a faint but persistent tiredness. Then the later signs — sore muscles, aching bones. All of it seemed preventable, somehow. If it ended in the worst way, I wondered: could I simply go with mom, leaving the regrets of possibilities behind?

The synthesizer bells of O Superman jingled. Its notes shimmering like distant stars. They felt like a call; a song from a far-off moon, pulling me into a dream I didn’t want to wake from. A dream reminiscent of Stefan’s. A close embrace of finality after the seemingly perpetual Jacob’s Ladder nightmare.

I spent two and a half hours with Bandersnatch.

The film asked me if I wanted to give another go. I wiped my eyes and put it to rest.

***

Originally published privately on 20 December 2024.

Konspirasisme, ”Buzzer” Politik, dan Pemilu 2024

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Ada satu hidung yang kerap ditunjuk di tiap prahara politik, tetapi tak pernah jelas bisa digambar wajah pemiliknya: hidung para ”dalang” atau ”mastermind”. Belum lama ini, misalnya, Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono (SBY) menyebut ada ”mastermind” di balik batalnya pencalonan Agus Harimurti Yudhoyono (AHY) sebagai cawapres Anies Baswedan di Pemilu 2024.

Klaim SBY bisa jadi benar, tetapi bisa jadi juga salah. Bagi publik kebanyakan saat ini, tak ada cara pasti dan langsung dalam menguak kenyataannya selain mengandalkan laporan yang bisa membeberkan peristiwa belakang layar.

Satu hal yang lebih bisa dipastikan adalah implikasi klaim ”dalang” atau ”mastermind” terhadap cara kita mengelola informasi. Cara berpikir konspirasisme dan kecenderungan mencari ”dalang” tak kasatmata ini bisa jadi satu dari beberapa sebab masalah hoaks terus sulit ditangkal di Indonesia.

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1 December 2024

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The lump in my mother’s body was confirmed as a tumor. That was 24 February 2023. From between her lungs, the cancer grew swiftly, insidiously. Spreading through her bones like a fire seeking fuel. Slight movement could send pain coursing through her, as if the simple joy of living had been violently stolen.

Hospitals became our routine, pills a daily burden. At first, there was progress. And then, her legs betrayed her. She was paralyzed – just less than a year later. In the scans, red dots plagued her bones, clustering like ants swarming over sugar. BPJS was sluggish. Treatment was delayed. Support was scarce. Doctor was unhelpful. Hesitation shrouded us. Everything seemed to conspire against her.

We changed doctors. Consulted with two. The face of one of them when he saw the scans haunts me still.

In the end, only one option remained: Tagrisso, a cutting-edge chemo pill. For late-stage cancer. Painfully expensive. Then, infused chemo and radiation followed. Unrelenting cycle of hope and sacrifice. Our wallets screamed. We pressed on.

22 November 2024. She took her first step out of the bed. Slowly, carefully, with trembling hands gripping our shoulders. She reached her wheelchair, then her piano. Her fingers hesitantly brushing keys from a time when life was kinder. The music was tentative, but it was hers again.

I remember the prayers whispered on those darkest nights. I had offered to give up anything – life pleasures, job security – if only she could be whole again. I wonder if those words were heard. Hope feels fragile, as if naming it might shatter the spell.

1 December 2024. We are planning our big family dinner – with mom – in what feels like forever.

Today, a quiet echo of late grandma’s birthday. The fight is still long and arduous. But I push aside all worries. Today, I post no sorrowful post commemorating my day of birth that coincided with the day of my dad’s passing. No. Just for today, in this year of 2024, I choose to be blissful.

***

Reposted from Instagram with slight alteration.

32

Pradipa PR (@xaliber) 1 Komentar

A world crumbled when dad passed away on this day. Gemala Zenobia, a friend, left a short message on Facebook. “This, too, has a meaning. A message from your dad.” Her exact phrasing has begun to wriggle free from the confines of memory. The meaning or message dad tried to impart on the day he left this earth—or perhaps the way I should attach meaning to his departure—remains a puzzle for which I have yet to find a clue.

It has been fourteen years since. Aid, and more recently, Aki, followed. Late-night calls now bring dread; distance fills me with unease. Once again I face this day empty-handed, greeted by now thirteen unfinished drafts. Words, like in years past, are stuck in the stream of my annual, half-conscious reflections.

Maybe I should publish just this once.

Aid

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Sewaktu kecil, saya adalah bocah yang sangat susah makan. Sebelum sendok makanan bisa masuk ke mulut saya, perhatian saya sering kali dialihkan, entah oleh tayangan TV atau pemandangan di jendela mobil. Ada seseorang yang lihai membantu ibu saya dalam urusan ini: Mbak Widati. Karena waktu kecil saya cadel, kami jadi memanggilnya Aid. Tiap kali saya dipegang Aid, makanan yang susah saya telan itu selalu berhasil mendarat masuk ke mulut–walau sering juga ujungnya sebagian terlepeh oleh saya.

Ibu saya adalah pekerja kantoran yang cukup sibuk. Semasa kecil hingga SD, waktu saya banyak dihabiskan bersama Aid dan nenek saya (saya biasa panggil Uti). Setiap hari Aid menunggu di depan gerbang sekolah, tempat antar-jemput anak-anak. Kadang bersama Uti. Ibu saya sementara itu disibukkan jika tidak dengan urusan kantor, maka dengan urusan perkooperasian di SD saat itu. Ibu saya waktu itu adalah pengurus koperasi.

Aid sudah mengurus saya hampir sejak saya dari lahir. Aid ibarat tante saya sendiri, jika tidak mau dibilang ibu kedua. Tiap ada urusan yang harus dikerjakan ibu saya tapi tidak bisa, Aid selalu menyikapinya dengan gesit. Kadang-kadang, Aid jadi penyeimbang bagi keputusan ibu saya yang kadang di luar akal. Pernah suatu hari, di tengah jalan sepulang dari liburan (sepertinya puncak), adik saya tiba-tiba ingin buang air besar. “Mau eek…” katanya merintih. Ibu saya, yang menyetir, langsung tancap gas pol-polan. Aid panik. “Nu jangan ngebut-ngebut!” Ybs punya ide lain: cari semak belukar, lalu biarkan adik buang air di sana.

Di rumah, Aid selalu duduk termangu (istilah Aid, ngglenuk) di depan TV. Biasanya pagi dan sore, di antara jeda pekerjaan rumah. Biasanya selalu ada cemilan seperti sambal dan ikan, serta segelas besar (gelas rootbeer A&W) es teh manis yang menemaninya menonton TV. Ibu saya sudah sering mengomeli Aid yang konsumsi gulanya luar biasa berlebihan, tapi namanya orang Jawa, sepertinya susah buat Aid buat menampik kebiasaan itu.

Di sore-sore seperti itu, saat saya sedang bermain Lego di dekatnya, kadang saya bertanya apa yang ditontonnya, saking seriusnya ybs terhenyak dalam tontonannya. Biasanya ybs tak berpanjang lebar menjawab saya. Aid yang agak gemuk dan berambut keriting pendek diikat itu hanya ngglenuk, asyik dengan tontonan dan makanannya.

Makanan bikinan Aid yang menjadi favorit saya adalah rawon. Aid sepertinya belajar dari juru masak paling andal di keluarga saya: Eyang Uti. Setiap kali Aid pulang kampung ke Klaten, kemudian kembali ke Jakarta, Aid selalu membawakan telor asin khas Klaten. Telor-telor asin itu kuning telornya berwarna merah, sedap sekali. Biasanya Aid akan memadukannya dengan rawon masakannya. Dulu saya selalu menanti masakan itu. Kadang-kadang bahkan saya gado, makan dengan lauknya saja, dan ujung-ujungnya saya habiskan. Aid sering mengomel kalau tahu saya mencuri jatah seperti itu. Katanya: jangan dihabiskan sendiri, pikirkan yang lain. Sepertinya omelan-omelan itu yang sekarang membuat saya jadi lebih sering menyisakan makanan yang dihidangkan di meja makan (walau cuma beberapa potong sih biasanya).

Aid senang sekali memberikan julukan pada saya dan adik saya. Saya biasa dipanggil “Gondel”. Entah apa artinya. Tapi mungkin merujuk pada bandelnya saya waktu kecil, dan juga isengnya saya. Saya pernah dengan ibu saya menakut-nakuti Aid dengan selimut, seperti pocong, di depan kamarnya. Jika sudah sebal, biasanya Aid akan bilang, dengan intonasi yang awalnya tinggi lalu makin merendah, ” Woooo, Gondel! Dasar…” Adik saya, di sisi lain, diberi julukan “Dimpu”. Saya juga tak tahu apa artinya, tapi bisa jadi karena terdengar lucu. Dim-nya sepertinya dari nama adik saya, Dimas.

Kadang-kadang saya cekcok dengan Aid. Biasanya kalau sudah urusan beberes rumah, yang sering kali terdapat miskomunikasi antara saya dengan ybs. Saya biasanya berucap kesal, “gimana sih Aid, gembel bener.” Saya waktu itu tidak mau menyebut “gemblung”, jadi saya mencari kata lain. Aid biasanya akan membalikkan, “gak apa-apa gembel, wong sugih!” Gembel adalah nama salah satu eyang saya yang cukup kaya raya.

Saat saya SMA, beranjak kuliah, Aid menikah. Setelah sekitar 17 tahun membesarkan saya dari lahir, akhirnya Aid meninggalkan rumah saya, hidup dengan kehidupannya sendiri. Suaminya hasil dari perjodohan yang dijodohkan orang tua saya. Ada masanya saya begitu kesal dengan keputusan itu–karena mendadak dan saya tidak dikabari–sehingga saya berteori konspirasi orang tua sengaja memisahkan saya dengan Aid.

Saya masih ingat waktu akhirnya Aid beranjak pergi dari rumah saya. Separuh berlinang air mata, Aid bilang, “kalo nanti udah jadi orang besar, jangan lupa sama Aid ya!” Aid waktu itu mencoba menutup air matanya dengan tawa. Memang, walau kadang judes dan menyebalkan, Aid adalah orang yang berusaha tampak ceria.

Suami Aid meninggal sekitar lima-enam tahun lalu. Tiap kali mengobrol singkat lewat telepon, kami selalu menyampaikan keinginan untuk bertemu satu sama lain. Aid kadang bercerita tentang sepinya di Klaten, dan kakinya yang sakit karena diabetes. Aid harus terus-menerus suntik insulin. Aid beberapa kali bilang bahwa ybs berencana untuk ke Jakarta ketika kondisinya sudah mendingan. Pada obrolan terakhir saya, Aid menyampaikan keinginannya untuk mampir ke Jakarta saat lebaran.

Seminggu terakhir saya entah kenapa teringat terus dengan Aid. Saya melihat udang yang dijual oleh kenalan saya, dan teringat makanan yang menemani tontonan Aid di TV pada sore hari. Saya ingin menelpon Aid, tapi rutinitas banal saya kerap menjadi excuse bagi saya untuk tidak melakukannya.

15 Januari 2021, ibu saya mencabut “uban pertama” di rambut saya. Saat itu saya tidak memikirkannya, tapi saya teringat waktu bertemu Aid yang beruban, dua atau tiga tahun lalu.

16 Januari 2021, saya mendapat kabar bahwa Aid meninggal dunia. Gagal ginjal.

Saya seharusnya menelpon beliau dari kemarin.

Saat ini saya sudah tidak bisa berbuat apa-apa. Saya hanya bisa menulis tulisan pendek ini di blog.

Kalau Aid bisa entah bagaimana membaca tulisan ini, Aid harus tahu kalau Gondel kangen ya Aid. Gondel tadinya masih berharap Aid bisa melunasi janjinya untuk main ke sini. Sekarang aku cuma bisa berharap semoga Aid sudah tidak kesakitan lagi di sana.

Al-Fatihah.

Jakarta,
17 Januari 2021.

When ‘blasphemy’ was all right

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Religious scripture, according to a famed poet, was filled with “lies that are believed in every generation”. Such a remark may not seem strange in this day and age — though in Indonesia, unfortunately, it could cost you jail time. That remark however was made by Al-Ma’arri in 10th century Syria, during the Abbasid Caliphate. Though his words sparked controversy, Al-Ma’arri was never tried for his seemingly blasphemous words. He lived a long life and died at the age of 83.

The philosopher-physician Ar-Razi, who lived a few decades earlier, was also known for his stern criticism of religion. In his book, Fil Nubuwwat (On Prophecies), Ar-Razi wrote that religions were unreliable guides in understanding reality. He believed holy scripture was limited in its capacity to reveal truth, unlike scientific reasoning. He too lived a long life without enduring trials for blasphemy.

Indeed, contrary to the stereotypical portrayal of the medieval period as being backward and oppressive, the caliphate was actually relatively rich in its philosophical and religious exchanges. Thought-provoking statements on such matters were common and not limited only to a handful of scholars.

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Ilusi Ekonomi Berbagi Angkutan Online

Pradipa PR (@xaliber) 3 Komentar

Seperti mantra, istilah ekonomi berbagi (sharing economy) menyulap percakapan tentang aksi protes sopir taksi, Selasa pekan lalu, menjadi sekadar masalah teknologi dan inovasi. Tulisan Rhenald Kasali di Kompas, misalnya, menyematkan label-label menggiurkan: inovasi, perubahan, dan adaptasi. Anehnya, tulisan Rhenald sepertinya gagal memahami konsep ekonomi berbagi yang ia sebut berkali-kali. Grab, Uberr, Go-Jek, Airbnb, sampai OLX dan Kaskus, semuanya dicampuradukkan sebagai ekonomi berbagi.

Semua memang sama-sama berbasi teknologi, tapi tumpuan ekonomi berbagi bukanlah soal teknologi. Ekonomi berbagi bertumpu pada bagaimana individu mampu memanfaatkan idle capacity (aset menganggur) dari aset yang ia miliki tanpa kehilangan kepemilikan terhadap aset tersebut.

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