In a nation that prides itself on digital democracy and the spirit of transparency, a cinematic masterpiece has emerged under the bold title: “Giliran Kita (Our Turn).” It’s not a film. It’s not a soap opera. It’s a government video that blends futurism, hope-filled speeches, and... a tidal wave of dislikes so large that even YouTube's servers broke into a cold sweat. The video, starring none other than the beloved Vice President—who, of course, comes from humble beginnings as just a former mayor and the president’s son—calls for unity, action, and optimism: “It’s our turn to build the future.” A noble call indeed, one that surely stirred the hearts of branding consultants and social media managers who had already lit their scented candles and opened their crisis comms playbook.
It was supposed to inspire, wrapped in ambition, lit in cinematic gold, and narrated with all the gravitas of a national pledge.
But alas, fate had a different plan. The internet is not a red carpet. It’s a coliseum. Instead of applause or heartfelt likes, what followed was a digital uprising of downward thumbs—a pixelated protest, orchestrated by the nation’s most powerful demographic: people with Wi-Fi and free time. The video didn't land—it collided. With expectations, with realities, and with thousands of dislikes delivered faster than a press release after a gaffe.
Sadly, this dislike-fest is no longer visible to the public. YouTube, in all its corporate compassion, has hidden the numbers for the mental well-being of creators. After all, even Vice Presidents have feelings... and public image consultants with very tight deadlines.
Let’s talk about the dislike button. That beautiful, underrated, passive-aggressive icon of the internet. While a like can be handed out generously—sometimes just because the thumbnail looked decent or your finger slipped—a dislike? Oh no. Dislike takes commitment. Imagine the emotional journey: someone watches your video, frowns slowly, pauses... and then, with the weight of national disappointment, drags their mouse toward the thumbs-down icon and clicks with the same resolve as rejecting an ex’s “u up?” text. This isn’t just feedback—it’s a digital manifesto.
And in the case of “Giliran Kita”, the dislike wasn’t just a reaction—it was a coordinated, crowd-sourced civic ritual. Like cleaning up the neighbourhood, except instead of trash, people were cleaning up the algorithm—one angry click at a time.
Unfortunately, those glorious thumbs-down have since been declared classified data, tucked away like a state secret or a misused budget report. YouTube, in its infinite mercy, decided to hide the numbers—for the emotional safety of creators. Because, of course, if a public servant’s video gets roasted by the public, it’s the public who must be silenced.
In the end, perhaps “Our Turn” was never really about us. It was about whose turn it was to take centre stage, whose turn it was to narrate the nation’s optimism, and whose turn it was to look inspiring in slow motion with ambient music and perfect lighting.
Yet behind the cinematic speeches and colour grading, the public was quietly exercising its last unsilenced right:
the right not to be impressed.
And that, dear reader, is where the magic happened.
Because when "good PR" is cooked too well, it starts to taste like a synthetic sweetener—nice at first, but leaves a weird aftertaste.
What the people wanted was never a 4-minute film shot in 6K. They wanted honesty, clarity, and perhaps a better signal than the one used to upload that video in the first place.
So we ask now—not in anger or envy, but with gentle sarcasm and civic curiosity:
“After their turn making the video… will we ever get our turn—to be heard?”
[Bahasa]
