Why Money Will Never Buy Experience

The Door Can Be Bought; Stepping Through Cannot

In every age, people have tended to believe that almost everything has a price. Houses, cars, clothes and even the time of others can be exchanged for a sum of money. It is hardly surprising, then, that a deceptively simple yet nagging question should arise: can money buy experience? The answer is not a plain yes or no. Money can certainly buy access to experiences, but the very essence of experience lies beyond the reach of any transaction. 

The Gateways That Money Opens

There is no point in denying that money opens many doors. With it, a person can explore distant lands, watch a favourite musician perform live, dine at the finest restaurants or enrol on a course that sharpens a new skill. Those who are comfortably off naturally have more chances to sample the variety of life than those who wrestle daily with the most basic necessities. To ignore this would be naive, for opportunity is simply not shared out equally.

Yet opportunity is only a gateway. It promises possibility, not certainty. A plane ticket guarantees that someone will arrive in the destination city, but not that they will return with anything of value inside themselves. It is here that the difference between having access and having experience begins to show. 

The Depth No Ticket Office Sells

Imagine two people making the same journey, along the same route, staying in the same places and seeing the same sights. One returns largely unchanged; for that person, the trip is little more than a string of photographs on a mobile phone. The other comes home with a shifted outlook and a fresh awareness of themselves and the world around them. The price of their tickets was identical, but the results are worlds apart. What separates them is not the money spent but the openness of heart and mind with which they travelled.

Experience, then, is not a commodity that changes hands. It is something that happens within a person who is truly present in the life they are living. It demands attention, a willingness to feel and the courage to let events leave their mark. There is no till at which such things can be paid for. 

What Can Only Be Lived Through

There are also whole realms of experience that money cannot reach at all. Heartbreak is not sold in any market, and nobody would wish to buy it, yet it is often through such wounds that people learn about love and loss. Resilience is much the same. It does not grow out of comfort but out of repeated falling and getting up again. So too with the quiet wisdom that comes only with the passing of time and with reflection on what has happened. All of this is earned by living, not bought.

Perhaps that is why one saying captures it so beautifully: money can buy the stage but not the play, the ticket but not the memory.\ 

The Tale of a Merchant Who Wished to Buy Experience

The idea can be understood more deeply through a story about a merchant. He lived in a prosperous city, with vaults overflowing with gold. Almost anything he desired could be his: silk from far-off kingdoms, spices from foreign shores and jewels that glittered like captured starlight. Even so, one thing troubled him. He often heard old travellers, sailors and farmers speak of something they called experience, as though it were worth more than gold.

The merchant reasoned that if something were so precious, it could surely be bought. So he set out to find the greatest market in the world. At the first stall, he asked the seller whether experience could be sold to him. The seller offered him a ticket on a ship bound for lands beyond the horizon. The merchant paid generously and returned only after several months. Asked whether he had bought experience, he replied that all he had bought was a journey. The experience had come only because he had endured storms, uncertainty and wonder along the way.

At the second stall, he put the same question. A scholar sold him hundreds of books. When he had read every one, he went back to the scholar. Asked the same thing, he admitted that he had bought only knowledge. Understanding, he said, arrived only when life put what he had learned to the test.

At the third stall, an old blacksmith smiled and said that he had no experience for sale. The merchant groaned, for everyone told him the same, so where on earth could he buy it? The blacksmith placed a rough piece of iron in the merchant's hand. The iron could be bought, he said, and so could the hammer, and even the forge. But the strength of steel comes only from passing through the fire. 

The Lesson of the Forge

The merchant fell silent, and for the first time he understood. Money could buy roads, but not the walking. It could buy lessons, but not the learning. It could buy a seat by the window, but not the wisdom gained from the view. He went home a changed man. From then on, whenever anyone asked him whether money could buy experience, he would simply smile and say that money can purchase the door, but experience is what happens after you choose to step through it.

The blacksmith's parable holds a truth that applies to everyone. Materials, tools and facilities can be provided by money, but the work of forging must still be done by oneself. Strong steel is never made from iron that is merely gazed upon; it must be heated, hammered and cooled again and again. In the same way, people mature not because of what they own but because of what they have been through. 

Conclusion: The Decision to Step Through

Money, therefore, still plays a real part. It widens choices and eases the first step, and to belittle it would only mislead. But money stops at the threshold. What happens on the other side, whether it becomes a memory that brings one to life or a visit that slips by unnoticed, depends entirely on the person who walks through.

Perhaps the better question is no longer whether money can buy experience, but how willing we are to be present, to feel, and to let life leave its imprint on us. Anyone who can afford it may buy the door, but only those who dare to step inside will return with something beyond price.

Bahasa

The Adviser from the Dining Table

Notes from a Coffee Shop on an Advisory Seat Whose Vacancy Nobody Heard Of

On Friday morning, 23 October 2026, my coffee arrived alongside a document passing from phone to phone. At the next table a young man in a neat shirt was opening a plastic folder holding his original degree certificate and a few certified photocopies, preparing for a ten o'clock job interview. Meanwhile, on the screens of the other customers' phones, the talk of the shop was an attachment to a document titled Ministerial Decision Number 3 of 2026 on the Appointment of Expert Staff to the Minister of Hajj and Umrah. It listed nine names. Two of them, according to the circulating attachment, were Barbarossa Muhammad Farros in second place and Gibran Muhammad Fawwaz in seventh, said to be the minister's own sons. The decision, according to reports, was signed by the minister himself.

So that nobody is left confused, we should first introduce the minister. He is Mochamad Irfan Yusuf, better known as Gus Irfan. Born in Jombang, East Java, in 1962, he is the son of KH Yusuf Hasyim and grandson of the founder of Nahdlatul Ulama, KH Hasyim Asy'ari. Since 1989 he has served as general secretary of the Tebuireng Islamic boarding school, his family's pesantren, and he is also known as a politician of the Gerindra party. In October 2024 he was sworn in to head the Hajj Organising Agency, and on 8 September 2025 President Prabowo Subianto swore him in as Minister of Hajj and Umrah, the first in Indonesian history, when the agency was upgraded to a ministry. Such a record is no small matter, and that is precisely why the public expects so much.

Let us borrow this coffee shop to understand the matter. Imagine a large establishment called the Ministry of Hajj and Umrah, which handles the sacred journeys of millions of people who have saved for decades in order to go. Its owner naturally needs advisers, since a task so great cannot be shouldered alone. So the most capable and trustworthy people are sought. As far as the reports I have read go, the selection process and qualifications of those advisers have not been explained in detail to the public. And the adviser easiest to reach is the one living in the next room. Advice from the next room, as we know, seldom disagrees with the person advised, because the dinner table is the same.

Of course the minister has not stayed silent. In his explanation he said the number of advisers in his ministry remains below the permitted limit: of three allowances for special staff he took one, and of five for expert staff he took four. He also said the ministry was short of people when it was being set up, with some seven thousand staff needed, and that his children and students helped build the institution without being asked. Such an explanation deserves a fair hearing. One analyst who criticised him also acknowledged, according to reports, that no formal rule was clearly broken, and that what is at issue is ethics and the potential conflict of interest. Therein lies the irony. Not breaking the rules and being fitting are two phrases that do not often travel together. An unfilled quota does not mean members of the family may fill it. In any coffee shop, an empty chair is not an invitation for the owner's relatives to sit down, but an opportunity for someone else to be tested.

As for remuneration, there is an intriguing muddle. A widely circulated poster cites a monthly salary in the tens of millions of rupiah, together with an official car and fuel, whereas the minister, according to reports, says his two sons are not paid. Let the budget documents settle which is right, and let us hope they settle it in plain view. Satire has no need to add figures that remain untested. But even supposing there is no pay, the question does not go away. Reward does not always come in rupiah. An official decree is another kind of currency: it opens the door to meetings, grants access to information, and attaches a name to authority. A pure volunteer seldom needs the state's stamp in order to help. A stamp has a value of its own, and that value cannot always be counted in rupiah. Then there is a small question that the car park attendant outside would surely ask, and which cannot be answered with a smile. If it is true that they are unpaid, do those advisers pay for their own midday lunch packets and their journeys to and from the office, like volunteers who bring a packed lunch from home? Or are there other budget lines, with names like meal allowance, travel allowance and operating costs, that keep the phrase unpaid feeling comfortable? The coffee may well be free, but the cup, the sugar and the electricity still come from the shop's till. I do not know the answer myself, and have no wish to guess. Let the budget documents and the audit bodies answer, for the use money is not the owner's private money, but that of customers who have saved for decades.

At the tables of the shop, that morning's talk moved swiftly from the document to the faces. A motorcycle-taxi driver asked how many young people had come this week with plastic folders holding their original certificates, queued with pounding hearts, and been politely turned away because the seat they were after had already gone to someone better known. The young man at the next table glanced once more at his folder. He had his certificate, his transcript and a medical certificate. Nobody had ever asked him to bring a certificate proving he was somebody's son. Perhaps that is where the bitterness of this shop begins: not in the size of the post, but in the fact that the widest door so often opens for those who never need to knock.

And yet the business this establishment handles is no ordinary business. The funds and hopes of millions of prospective pilgrims, who have waited their turn for years, are entrusted to a ministry only newly born. Whoever manages a sacred journey ought to be the most careful in keeping family interests apart from the interests of the faithful. Not because his sons are certainly unqualified, but because public trust is built not on a belief that someone is capable, but on the ability to prove it before everyone. An official who appoints his own family and asks the public to trust that they are able is asking the public to pay in trust he has not yet had time to save.

The way out is simple, and need not wait for anyone to be angry. Open the selection of expert staff to all, publish the qualifications and the reasons, and let those who are truly capable, including the minister's sons if that is the case, prove themselves among the other applicants. If the aim is merely to help sincerely, they can carry on doing so as volunteers, without a decree. And if the decree is to be kept, show the basis of competence, the selection mechanism and a conflict-of-interest declaration the public can examine. Light seldom harms those who hide nothing, and so there should be no reason to fear the lamp.

I finished my coffee slowly. Outside, the young man in the neat shirt walked past with his plastic folder in hand, heading for a door that somehow never seemed to open wide for him. I watched him until he vanished round the bend. The bitterest coffee, I thought, is not the kind brewed too long, but the kind drunk while watching the important seats of this Indonesian country filled from the same dining table. And when the advisers are the very people who set the spoon on the owner's table, the people no longer ask who is the cleverest. They ask, in a voice that is quiet yet can no longer be stirred away, who actually has the right to ask. And probably the answer is: "I want it that way!"

Bahasa