Three Fingers and the Family Tree

Notes from a Coffee Shop That Suddenly Became a Court of Public Opinion

That morning I ordered my coffee at my regular stall and, without thinking, held up three fingers: three cups, one for me and two for friends who were on their way. The seller stared at my hand for rather a long moment, then chuckled and said that we all have to be careful these days, because three fingers can be read in all sorts of ways. I laughed along, but my laughter tasted like coffee left too long on the table: still warm on the surface, yet already turning bitter at the bottom. Times, it seems, have changed. The fingers that once counted cups, counted instalments, or signalled third place in a greasy-pole climbing contest now carry a political meaning their owners never asked for.

It all began with news that has spread far and wide, no longer mere hearsay: a relative of the President’s envoy, well known as a figure from the entertainment world, is reported to hold public office. I have no intention of passing judgement on anyone, for verdicts are the business of courts and proof, not of a cup of coffee. But this piece may fairly ask about the pattern, and about the impression left in many minds when the doors to public office seem to open more easily for those who happen to have stood close together in the same family photograph. This country is certainly creative. Once, people sent in a CV; now it is enough to send a pedigree. On the vacancy noticeboard it is written that education, experience and competence will be given priority, but in the bottom corner there is a small note, almost too faint to read: family connections may speed up the reading of applications.

The public has begun to suspect that the family tree has been converted into the organisation chart of the state. Children used to be asked to draw their family trees as a school assignment, and went home with good marks for colouring the leaves neatly. Now some citizens look at the very same drawing and see a national career guide. One relative becomes a minister, another a commissioner, another heads an agency, and yet another sits in parliament, and the people ask, quite innocently: is this a large family or a holding company? Meanwhile ordinary people busy themselves sharpening their skills, attending training courses and collecting certificates until the folders will no longer fit in the cupboard. Some others, it seems, are more diligent in collecting photographs taken at official events. Each time a new appointment is announced, people no longer reach for the CV; they leaf through the photo album instead. Not because the appointee is necessarily unsuited to the job, but because the public wants to be sure that what is at work is competence, not connections.

What I find most entertaining in this whole performance is the pattern of the explanations. Imagine a conversation on the porch of a village hall. The people ask why so many important posts are filled by people who are close to one another. The authorities reply that it is a coincidence. The people ask about that one, and the authorities answer that it, too, is a coincidence. When the people point to yet another, the authorities calmly insist that this is still a coincidence. At that point the people stop demanding transparency and start asking for lessons in statistics. Our ancestors once worshipped the god of rain, the god of the sea and the god of the harvest. Now a new deity has arisen, a most powerful one, called the God of Coincidence. Whenever a family member turns up in a strategic post, he steps in. Whenever a conflict of interest looks suspicious, he works overtime. And whenever the people begin to ask questions, the court priests say: do not be cynical, this is a miracle of coincidence.

I am reminded of a fairy tale about a kingdom whose tower rose very high. Its people busied themselves building ladders to reach the summit of power. They studied, they worked, they competed, and they slipped on slippery rungs. Then one day they realised that some of the tower’s residents had been going up in a lift that ran straight from the family dining room. The people were not angry that there was a lift. They merely asked why the official handbook still told everyone to bring their own ladder. That, in the end, is the difference between meritocracy and nepotism. In a meritocracy, achievement opens the door, and people ask what you have done. In nepotism, the door is already open before achievement arrives, and people ask whose relative you are. This country teaches that everyone has an equal chance to succeed; it is just that some people happen to start the race from the same living room as the organisers.

It is hardly surprising, then, that three fingers are now raised everywhere, from social media walls to the tables of coffee shops. Celebrities used to compete to gather fans. Now some must face the fact that fans can evolve into demonstrators, and that calls for a boycott travel faster than any press release of clarification. Sociologists may call it a political phenomenon; netizens call it the latest feature of democracy. In the digital age, reputation does indeed move faster than an official car. An appointment may be announced at a press conference, but the court of public opinion sits twenty-four hours a day on the timeline, with no days off and no overtime pay. The interesting thing is that the more people explain that everything is perfectly fine, the more people feel the need to raise three fingers a little higher. When one person raises them, it is expression. When ten do, it is protest. When thousands do, it is a sign that the official explanation has failed to convince anyone that all of this is merely coincidence.

Some of the elite, as usual, are busy counting who set the crowds in motion. The people, meanwhile, are counting something far simpler: how many public seats appear to go round and round within the same circle of names. The people do not demand perfection. They merely have a chronic allergy to the impression that one family has access to too many doors that ought to be opened through fair competition. A tree, as our elders say, is a fine place to shelter, but it is not meant to be used as a ladder to a seat of office.

The coffee in my glass had gone cold by the time I finished thinking all this through, and, as ever, it remained a faithful and honest witness. It has kept company with people recalculating their monthly outgoings, with students pulling all-nighters over their dissertations while imagining a fairer future, and with job-seekers waiting for an interview call with a patience that borders on the unreasonable. For them, the morning coffee is not merely a drink but the fuel of a hope that hard work is still worth something. So what I most look forward to hearing from those in power is not a grand promise but one simple sentence that answers this unease: that public office will go to whoever is most able to serve, not to whoever stood closest when the family photograph was taken.

I have named no one in these notes, and there is no need to. Good satire criticises practices, not persons. Family ties ought to be a private matter, whereas what belongs to the public is achievement, track record and accountability. If any reader knows at once who is meant, perhaps that is not because this piece is too sharp, but because the news itself is already far too bright. And for as long as the CV is still outread by the family tree, do not be surprised if those three fingers keep rising, until the day public office is once again opened to those who bring their own ladders.

Bahasa

When the Truncheon Gets the Wrong Address

Notes from a Coffee Shop on Justice Said to Be Still on Its Way

That morning my coffee arrived with two pieces of news from Sukoharjo, Central Java, Indonesia, tangled together like knotted thread. The first dated from September: a pork noodle shop in Parangjoro village, which openly sold non-halal food, was burned down by a mob on 12 September 2026. Nearly a month later, police arrested a suspect who, by their account, had once been convicted in a terrorism case, while another man was still being hunted. So far the story ran as straight as a motorway: there was a fire, there were culprits, there were pursuers. I took a calm sip of coffee, before the second piece of news arrived and scrambled everything.

The second report came in the small hours of Tuesday, 27 October. At about three o'clock, a heavily armed force arrived at a girls' Islamic boarding school in Mojolaban and another in Karanganyar, looking for a fugitive. According to the school, the door was broken down while its residents slept, and the pupils, aged roughly ten to sixteen, hid in their teachers' room. Twelve girls and four female teachers were taken to the police station, questioned as witnesses, and then sent home, since no evidence of their involvement was found. The police maintain that everything followed procedure, and say sharp weapons were seized from the places searched. The school speaks of intimidation. The two accounts are now being examined by the Ministry of Human Rights and the national human rights commission, and according to reports the row has even led to a police chief being removed from his post.

I should remind myself that not everything that happened in those small hours was cruelty, nor is everything the authorities do an abuse of power. The police have a duty to pursue those suspected of burning down a business, and hunting a fugitive is hardly work to be done by knocking politely at noon. The trouble lies not in the destination but in the route. The address being sought may well be correct, yet between the point of departure and the point of arrival there were children asleep, rooms occupied only by young women, and a proper way of doing things that ought to make a search feel like the enforcement of law, not like a storm dropping in.

At the corner table, a retired gentleman whose coffee is always strong offered his own parable. Fire in this country, he said, seems to know its addresses rather well: it knows exactly which shop it means to lick. The truncheon, by contrast, runs on a different navigation system and sometimes strays into somebody else's yard. I smiled, for the parable felt apt though he named no one. Procedure is certainly the map every driver needs. But a map was never meant as a licence to drive through the fence. A good driver knows that knowing the destination is not enough; he must also recognise which roads he may take.

There is other news, too, that makes this matter less simple than black and white. The residents of Parangjoro village, who are predominantly Muslim, have objected to the shop since April through banners, petitions and mediation with the district government, yet those meetings have not produced agreement. The shop holds a business licence from the online licensing system, whereas the residents complain that it lacks the blessing of the neighbourhood, so two kinds of permit sit facing each other across the table: one pinned to the wall, the other never asked of the neighbours. When the dispute reached the desk of Sukoharjo's acting regent, he said that permanent closure would need strong grounds and a careful assessment, given that the business licence was issued officially. Some took that stance as legal prudence, others read it as taking the shop owner's side. The demand for permanent closure itself, at a hearing in the regional legislature on 2 November, was voiced by the Surakarta Sharia Council, speaking for the boarding school, though its legal basis has not been spelled out. On the other hand, whoever now stands as a suspect in the arson is still entitled to be presumed innocent until a court decides, and the anger that flared after months of objection without a way out can be understood in its origins. But to understand is not to justify. Even the sincerest dislike has an orderly door through which to be voiced, and the law provides that road, not a match.

Put the whole story together, and the public's bewilderment seems only natural. People no longer ask who the culprit is, since the main suspect appears to have been caught and another is still sought. What they ask is where the truncheon was pointed at three in the morning, and why the first door knocked down is so often not the one nearest the fire. That question hangs in the air of the shop like coffee steam that does not know where to settle, while public trust joins the queue, waiting to be served.

To my mind, good justice resembles a cup of coffee properly brewed: the measure is clear, the water clean, and nothing spills onto another person's table. If something does spill, it should be wiped up quickly and honestly acknowledged, not explained at such length that the coffee goes cold. And if a ministry and a human rights body must step in to examine what really happened behind the school's doors, that is not a sign that someone is under attack, but a sign that this country still has a way of asking questions of itself.

In the evening I closed my newspaper like a diary not yet finished. Outside, the rain fell softly, as if wishing to douse the embers still glowing in many people's heads. I hope that somewhere, justice is reading its map carefully and will finally find the right road: takes the children home to their beds in peace and carries public trust back to the place it has so long been absent from. For what most often turns to ash in this country is not buildings but trust, and ash of that kind cannot be swept up with a broom alone.

Bahasa