The Insider Specialists, Part Two

Further Notes from a Coffee Shop: The Penalty

The next morning, the retired gentleman was already sitting on the same bench before I could order my coffee. He opened the conversation with the question I had heard from almost every table in that coffee shop: they say the sentence is death, don’t they? A student in the corner nodded firmly, the motorbike-taxi driver beside him shook his head doubtfully, and the fritter seller said she had read it in a post, though she could not say whose. I brewed my coffee slowly, because a question that size should not be answered in a hurry. A coffee shop has no statutes, but it does have one good habit: it checks what is in the glass before drawing conclusions about the taste.

Let us separate two things that the timelines often mix up, like sugar and salt in a dark kitchen. The first is opinion. Many commentators and public figures do regard the alleged wiretapping of the President as linked to treason, and some say that the treason provisions carry the death penalty. The second is the official suspicion. According to the investigators and the government, the suspects are currently being charged under the provisions on wiretapping and interception in the new Criminal Code and under the Electronic Information and Transactions Law, with a maximum penalty of ten years’ imprisonment, and so far no treason provision has been used. So, for now, the death penalty is an opinion in circulation, not a recorded charge. Both may be debated at the coffee table, but only one of them may serve as the basis for a verdict.

The coffee shop has a simple rule for this: the menu and the bill. If we order a plate of fried rice, the owner may not charge us the price of lobster merely because another customer at the next table shouts that the fried rice ought to have been lobster. In criminal law the rule is much the same: a judge rules on the provisions that have been charged and proved in court, not on whichever provision is being called out loudest outside the building. That is what is known as the principle of legality, which keeps punishment from being decided by anger. The investigators and prosecutors may of course add or change the charges if they find new evidence, but that is a matter of proof, not of wishing. For now, as long as the provisions concern wiretapping, the highest penalty is already clearly written down, and while the process runs, the presumption of innocence continues to apply to everyone.

Of course, the word treason has a certain appeal. It is a big word that sounds like the strike of a gong, and whoever utters it at once sounds like a person who understands history. But courts do not love big words. Courts love evidence, and the heavier the provision, the heavier the elements that must be proved. Calling something treason on a timeline takes two seconds and one thumb. Proving it in court takes case files, witnesses, experts, and a patience rarely found in people who are angry. So I made one note in the margin of our coffee shop’s dictionary: the word that goes viral fastest is not always the word that stands strongest in the courtroom.

If we want to know how punishment has been handed down in history, we can learn from those who went before. Sejanus, in Rome two thousand years ago, was executed on the very day the emperor’s letter was read out in the Senate, with no lengthy trial and no chance of appeal. Kim Jae-gyu, who shot President Park Chung-hee in 1979, was sentenced to death and hanged in May 1980. Both lived in times when the law moved as fast as a change in the wind and bowed to the whims of rulers. From them we learn that a death sentence that falls quickly is seldom a sign of justice; it is more often a sign that the law is not yet fully free.

Peru offers a far more complicated picture. Vladimiro Montesinos, intelligence chief of the Fujimori era, was not sentenced to death, but the sentences that piled up over two decades leave him serving more than thirty years in prison. His first sentence, in 2002, was nine years for usurping a post he had never officially held. Then came 20 years in 2006 for selling illegal weapons to the FARC, and 15 years for several corruption cases. His heaviest sentence, 25 years, was imposed not for the bribery videos or the wiretaps but for the Barrios Altos massacre and the murder of the journalist Pedro Yauri. His superior, Fujimori, was sentenced to 25 years in 2009 over massacres carried out by the Grupo Colina death squad, in addition to his sentence for corruption. The lesson is plain: the recording scandal that brought down a government is not always the basis for the heaviest punishment, because the heaviest charges often come from other crimes uncovered afterwards.

In Turkey, the sentences in the Erdoğan wiretapping affair varied with the provisions used. In the case of the listening devices in the Prime Minister’s office and residence, two former police officers were each sentenced to seven years and six months’ imprisonment out of the 13 people tried, while eight defendants were acquitted of all charges. But in the mass trial that followed, 131 defendants received sentences ranging from three years and nine months to 45 years, and a former police intelligence chief was sentenced to 18 years for leading an armed terrorist organisation, on top of more than seven years for illegal wiretapping. The figures leapt once terrorism provisions entered the indictment. That is where the complication lies: the heavy sentences were handed down in an atmosphere of sweeping purges, and the defendants, along with some observers, considered the proceedings politically motivated. So the weight of a verdict is not necessarily the measure of a process’s fairness.

Mark Felt, the famous Deep Throat, lived out the most ironic fate of all. The man who helped bring down President Nixon over illegal surveillance was himself found guilty in November 1980 of conspiring to violate citizens’ civil rights through warrantless searches. The judge imposed a fine of 5,000 dollars and no prison term. His colleague, Edward Miller, was fined 3,500 dollars, and President Reagan pardoned both men in 1981 while their appeals were still pending. Some call it wise justice; others call it proof that closeness to power is always useful, even after that power has changed hands.

South Korea shows the most careful road. President Yoon was sentenced to life imprisonment for leading an insurrection, not to the death penalty the prosecutors had sought. His defence minister was sentenced to 30 years and his national police chief to 12. The verdicts came through a long and open process, and some defendants were acquitted because their criminal intent had not been proved. Of all these stories, the death penalty fell in an era when the law was not yet free of the ruler, whereas in more settled countries even the heaviest verdicts must travel through statutes, evidence and appeals.

One question still hangs over our table, and it concerns not provisions but the person who placed the order: for whom, exactly, was all this done? The investigators have not answered it, the Palace admits it does not yet know the details of the motive, and the politicians can only ask in ever louder voices. Where answers are absent, speculation always grows like mushrooms in the rainy season. Some suppose this was a solo effort, some suppose it was the work of a gang, and some suppose there was another hand behind the scenes, whose hand nobody can say. Honest satire can note only one thing: the question is legitimate, but the answer is legitimate only if it is born of evidence. Pointing a finger without a case file is like setting off firecrackers in a paper warehouse. Let the investigators open the drawers one by one, and let the people wait patiently for whoever’s name is truly written inside, great or small, near or far, because good justice does not look at family photographs.

The conclusion from our coffee table today is therefore simple. Punishment is not determined by the size of public anger or the depth of the ruler’s sense of betrayal, but by the provision that is proved, the strength of the evidence, and the independence of the court. History’s range of punishments is very wide, from the gallows, to decades in prison, to fines and pardons, and the difference almost always comes from differences in provisions and in how a state treats its own law. That is why our own case too should be judged by the provisions that are eventually proved, not by whichever term is loudest on the timeline. The most expensive thing in a great case is not the sentence but the people’s trust that the process is clean.

As in the first part, we leave one note in the margin of the dictionary. This satire is aimed at the culture of insiders: the habit of treating power as personal property, a network of friends as a state institution, and closeness as immunity. It is not aimed at the President, who needs our support so that this country can keep running on the right track. We have made no suspect’s name a subject of mockery, because good mockery targets patterns, not persons. And we have passed no verdict, because a coffee shop has only a spoon that clinks against the rim of a glass, not a judge’s gavel.

The coffee in my glass was down to its grounds when that second conversation ended. I went home with a conviction a little calmer than yesterday’s: that anger may light a conversation, but only the law may close it. And once more, may Allah Subhanahu wa Ta’ala always protect President Prabowo Subianto, keep him healthy and safe, and strengthen him to lead this country with justice and trustworthiness. May this case also be handled openly, fairly and in accordance with the law, so that the guilty are punished in due measure. Amen, O Lord of the World.

Bahasa

The Insider Specialists

Notes from a Coffee Shop on House Keys and the Map of One’s Own Fate

That morning, at my regular coffee shop, a retired gentleman opened the conversation with a sentence that sounded like a brand-new proverb: they used to say they were loyal. We all nodded, for the word is uttered very often, especially by those most skilled at hiding another meaning behind their words. It turns out, said the old man as he sipped his black coffee, that their definition of loyalty is rather unusual. I wrote it down carefully, because a good morning coffee always goes best with a new dictionary.

According to the dictionary we were compiling on that wooden table, loyalty does not mean guarding the house, but memorising where all the house keys are kept. Loyalty does not mean protecting one’s superior, but knowing what is in the superior’s drawer before the superior has opened it. Loyalty does not mean serving the nation, but serving a network of friends, as though the republic were merely a WhatsApp group of power alumni, complete with an admin who never leaves and members who keep sending each other applause stickers. The news circulating lately, about alleged wiretapping of the nation’s highest office, makes the dictionary feel all the more relevant. Of course, everyone concerned remains a suspect, so the presumption of innocence must still be upheld. But satire need not wait for a verdict to ask about patterns, and this pattern is far too interesting to ignore.

What is funny about the insider specialists is the way they walk while power is still close at hand. They stride upright like owners of the future, greeting people with smiles that seem to hold a decree for the next five terms. But when the spotlight swings elsewhere, they suddenly all become victims of circumstance. Nobody was at the wheel. Nobody gave any orders. Nobody knew anything. Yet only yesterday their steps were so confident, as though history were written by the phone numbers saved in their personal contacts. The people naturally wonder: if nobody was at the wheel, who has been driving this great bus called power all the way to such a distant place?

Looking back at history, the insider specialist turns out not to be an invention of the WhatsApp age. Two thousand years ago in Rome, a man named Sejanus, commander of the Praetorian Guard, the troops who protected the emperor, was a powerful insider. Emperor Tiberius trusted him so completely that he is said to have called him his partner in toil, and when the emperor withdrew to the island of Capri in the year 26, the running of the government was entrusted to him. He became the most influential and most feared man in the city, even holding the consulship in the year 31. Then, in October of that same year, a letter from Tiberius was read out in the Senate. That very day Sejanus was arrested and put to death, his body thrown down the Gemonian stairs, and his post handed to another man who, naturally, swore to be loyal. Some of the charges against him, such as poisoning the emperor’s son, were raised only long after the events, so historians do not always agree on the details. But one thing is plain: a ruler’s unlimited trust is the kind of capital that evaporates fastest.

Moving to Seoul in 1979, the story grows darker. Kim Jae-gyu, head of the KCIA intelligence agency, had graduated from the military academy in the same year as President Park Chung-hee and is described in many accounts as one of his closest friends. On 26 October that year, at a dinner in a safe house belonging to his own agency, he shot the President dead. The agency had long been known for using wiretapping, arrests and torture without court orders against the regime’s opponents. In the run-up to the event, rumours circulated that he would soon be replaced, while his rivalry with the president’s chief bodyguard grew ever hotter. He was hanged in May 1980. The story teaches something bitter about instruments of surveillance: they are built to watch other people, but in the end they often become weapons pointing back at their makers.

In Peru, the story reads more like a drama of recordings. Vladimiro Montesinos was the de facto head of the intelligence service under President Fujimori, a man who worked behind the scenes for almost ten years. He recorded hundreds of videos of his own meetings, including scenes of himself bribing opposition politicians, and when one of those videos was broadcast in 2000, the scandal brought down Fujimori’s government. The irony is that the President was later convicted of channelling nearly fifteen million dollars of public money to his intelligence chief as a farewell bonus, while Montesinos is said to have once planned an unsuccessful coup against his own superior. He himself ended up in prison facing dozens of cases. From Lima we learn that a person who keeps secret recordings of his superior as a life policy is building insurance whose final premium is paid by everyone, including the superior.

In Turkey, the story is more complicated and has no single agreed version. From around 2013 to 2015, dozens of police officers, including senior officers, were detained over alleged spying on and wiretapping of Prime Minister Erdoğan and his inner circle. The government blamed a network linked to Fethullah Gülen, a former ally of Erdoğan whose followers held important posts in the police and the judiciary. Wiretap recordings leaked onto the internet, three ministers resigned, and Erdoğan called the whole affair a coup attempt, then removed thousands of police officers, judges and prosecutors. Those accused denied it. The police officers said the arrests were politically motivated, and Gülen denied plotting anything. Two versions, two truths, and one lesson: in cases like this the word traitor changes hands very easily, and the truth often gets tapped along with the conversation.

Then there is Washington, which offers a different point of view. Mark Felt, the second-ranking official at the FBI under Nixon, was later revealed to be “Deep Throat”, the secret source who helped the Washington Post expose the Watergate scandal until Nixon resigned in 1974. His identity came out only thirty years later, when he himself was frail with age. He is said to have hoped earlier to succeed Hoover as FBI director, only to be passed over by Nixon. Some call him a courageous leaker who exposed the wrongdoing of those in power; others see personal ambition behind it. The case matters because it shows that an insider’s leak can be labelled treason or heroism, depending on what it exposes and how strong the evidence is. Motive and evidence therefore matter more than the label.

And finally, there is a story from the opposite side: the insider who was too obedient. In December 2024, President Yoon Suk-yeol of South Korea declared martial law. In February 2026, a court of first instance sentenced him to life imprisonment on charges of leading an insurrection, even though the special prosecutor had asked for the death penalty. His defence minister was sentenced to thirty years, his national police chief to twelve, and several other officials received varying terms, while two defendants were acquitted because evidence of criminal intent was insufficient. The judge held that these officials had a duty to refuse unlawful orders. The lesson is clear for those who think blind loyalty is a shield: being loyal to a person does not erase the duty to be loyal to the Constitution. Another lesson is no less important: even in the gravest of cases, the court weighed each defendant one by one, separating the guilty from those for whom evidence fell short, and did not impose the heaviest penalty merely because it was demanded, let alone because of cheering outside the courthouse.

From Rome to Seoul, from Lima to Ankara, the script sounds much the same even as the actors change. First, allies can turn into enemies at a speed never calculated in any cooperation proposal. Closeness to a ruler is never an insurance policy, least of all for those who hold the keys, the drawers and the recordings. Second, people who know too much live in perpetual danger, both for their superiors and for themselves, because knowledge unsupervised by law quickly turns into a bargaining chip. Third, traitor is a heavy word that is easily abused. The Turkish case and the story of Felt remind us that the label must be proved in a fair court rather than merely shouted, for today it is used to punish the guilty and tomorrow it may be used to cleanse political rivals.

Fourth, what ultimately saves a country is not loyalty to persons but the strength of institutions. South Korea’s courts were able to try a president, ministers and a police chief together, and Peru eventually tried its intelligence chief and its president in separate proceedings. A strong institution does not depend on who happens to be close to the ruler. Fifth, this comparison has its limits. The case in our own country is still running; the person concerned still has the status of a suspect, and officials themselves have not been unanimous about whether to call it treason or not. For that reason, this satire does not claim that his fate will surely be that of Sejanus or Kim Jae-gyu. It says only that history likes to repeat the same script to those who refuse to read it.

Back in our own country, Indonesia, whether such conduct deserves to be called treason or should be classed as some other criminal offence, I leave to legal experts and the courts. It is said that even among officials the terminology is disputed. A coffee shop has no judge’s gavel, only a small spoon that clinks against the rim of a glass. All we have is a simple hope: that this matter will be investigated thoroughly, openly and fairly, from source to outflow, without fear or favour and without regard to who appears in the family photo. If guilt is proved, let the law speak in due measure. If it is not, let the law itself clear the name. That is what the law is for: it must be higher than no one, but it must be lower than no one either.

The irony is that they may have lived too long in the world of insiders, until they forgot that in a democracy there is no insider higher than the law. They imagined that loyalty could be inherited like furniture. They imagined that influence was eternal like an inscription. They imagined that closeness to one ruler could serve as insurance against the next, complete with a policy whose expiry date nobody ever checked. The history of politics is always cruel to arrogance of that kind. It likes to remind us that the seat of power is not nailed to the floor. Today you whisper in the ruler’s ear; tomorrow you sit in the interview chair.

And the people can only laugh bitterly, as bitterly as the coffee without sugar on our table. Well done, said the retired gentleman: for years you were busy mapping other people’s strength, only to fail to read the map of your own fate. That is the classic tragedy of the players behind the stage. They were so sure they controlled the story that they forgot that in the end they too can become minor characters written out of the script. The true author of the script, in a democracy, is not a handful of people in a closed room but the law, the constitution, and the people, who in the end always come to watch, bringing their own coffee.

We also did not forget to leave one important note in the margin of that dictionary. This satire is aimed at the culture of insiders: the habit of treating power as personal property, a network of friends as a state institution, and closeness as immunity. It is not aimed at the President, who is in fact the one who needs our support so that this country can keep running on the right track. A leader surrounded by too many insiders does need extra vigilance, and that vigilance is best helped by support, prayer and healthy public oversight, not by whispers behind the stage.

The coffee in my glass was down to its grounds when that morning’s conversation ended. I went home with one simple conclusion: this country does not need more insider specialists, but more citizens who believe that the law applies to everyone, from the coffee shop to the highest office. May Allah Subhanahu wa Ta’ala always protect President Prabowo Subianto, keep him healthy and safe, and strengthen him to lead this country with justice and trustworthiness. Amen, O Lord of the world.

Bahasa

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: those relatives of the President’s envoy, well known as a figure from the entertainment world, is reported to hold public offices. 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

While Papua Burns

Disclaimer

This satirical piece is inspired by media reports concerning wildfires and land fires in parts of Papua in late October 2026. According to reports citing the National Disaster Management Agency (BNPB), approximately 2,393 hectares of land were reported as burned across several regions of Papua on 28 October 2026, with dozens of hotspots detected. By 30 October 2026, South Papua had become one of the priority areas for wildfire response efforts. Figures relating to burnt areas, hotspot counts, affected locations, and ongoing mitigation efforts may change as field reports are verified and updated. 

Papua is burning!

Not as a metaphor. Not as the title of a political soap opera. Nor as a dramatic phrase invented by social media after an especially long evening online. This time there are real flames. Hotspots have been detected, smoke has risen into the sky, firefighters are battling the blaze, aircraft have been deployed, weather-modification operations have been conducted, and in remote areas the struggle to fight the fires is proving considerably more difficult than issuing a press statement. 

But do not worry. This republic possesses an extraordinary ability. Whenever fire appears in a forest, we are capable of producing meetings faster than rain.

Firefighters see flames. Satellites see hotspots. The BNPB sees data. The media sees headlines. Meanwhile, some netizens see opportunity. An opportunity to become instant experts. In the morning they are meteorologists. By lunchtime they are forestry specialists. In the evening they become public policy analysts. Tomorrow they may well be astronomers. It all depends on what happens to be trending.

Then come the inevitable questions: Who is to blame? Who was negligent? Who must be held accountable?

Perfectly reasonable questions.

For in this country, finding a culprit is often considerably quicker than finding a solution. The fire may not yet be extinguished, but the scapegoat is usually available before the first embers have cooled.

According to reports, several wildfire locations are difficult to reach. Ironically, places that are difficult for emergency crews to access are often remarkably easy for opinions to reach. People who have never seen the fire site can explain everything. People who are nowhere near the scene can conclude everything. And someone who has read only a single headline can somehow produce thirteen paragraphs of certainty. Remarkably efficient, really. Even fire requires fuel. Conclusions apparently do not. 

The haze has even disrupted air travel in parts of Papua. This leads one to an interesting observation: smoke can limit a pilot's visibility, yet it appears entirely incapable of limiting the reach of public commentary. Airports may experience delays. Flights may be cancelled. Yet the comments section remains open twenty-four hours a day, without interruption and without maintenance. 

Then comes our most enduring national ritual: concern.

"We are concerned."

"Deeply concerned."

"Extremely concerned."

Concern appears to be one of the nation's most abundant renewable resources. It never runs out. It is unaffected by drought. And unlike fire suppression efforts, it requires no weather-modification programme.

Yet concern itself is not what does the hard work.

The people doing the hard work are those in the field. The men and women confronting heat, smoke, difficult terrain, and genuine risk. They are the ones entering places that even vehicles struggle to reach. They are the ones facing the real fire. Meanwhile, some of us are facing only a mobile phone battery stuck at five per cent. 

Here is the darker joke: At least fire is honest. It does not pretend to be a solution. It does not claim to be a saviour. It does not organise a press conference. It does not publish a twenty-page thread. It simply burns, openly and unapologetically.

Human beings, on the other hand, can be much more complicated. We can make problems appear to be solutions and solutions appear to be threats. We can transform discussion into performance and performance into policy.

So when you hear the phrase"Papua is burning", do not ask only,"Who is to blame?" Ask as well,"Who is fighting the fire?""Who is bearing the consequences?" And perhaps most importantly,"Once all the arguments have ended, will the fire have gone out as well?"

Because satellites can count hotspots. The BNPB can calculate the number of hectares affected. Yet no technology has ever been invented that can accurately measure how much national energy is spent arguing compared with solving the problem itself. 

And perhaps that is the real hotspot.

Final Note
This satire comments on social behaviour, bureaucracy, media culture, and public reactions to a real-world event. It is not intended to diminish the seriousness of the disaster or the experiences of those affected by it. Readers seeking the latest information should refer to updates from BNPB, regional disaster agencies, meteorological authorities, and other relevant institutions, as wildfire conditions, hotspot counts, affected areas, and mitigation efforts may change from day to day as the situation develops.

Bahasa

Thank You - Thank You - Thank You

An Open Letter in Reply to Mr Patrick Liew

To the Honourable Mr Patrick Liew, Entrepreneur, Investor, and Author of Southeast Asia’s Most Cheerfully Ironic Open Letter,

Thank you.

Thank you sincerely—not sarcastically, as in your letter. Thank you for showing us that a reduction of 31 MMSCFD from a total of 409.5 MMSCFD—roughly 8 per cent—can be transformed so swiftly into a geopolitical tragedy, a universal moral lesson, and an existential threat to Southeast Asian commerce.

We are impressed. Not everyone can turn a modest figure into a grand oration. That is a talent. 

On Your “Thank You”

You opened your letter with “thank you,” closed it with “thank you,” and scattered enough “thank yous” in between to make readers suspect that the phrase was not a courtesy but a weapon.

We admire the literary technique. Still, allow us to use the same style:

Thank you, Mr Patrick, for reminding us that sarcasm can be written at length, while facts remain rather short.

The Indonesian Government has stated that the reduction remains above the contractual minimum threshold of approximately 91–92 MMSCFD. The reduction itself is only 31 MMSCFD. So, before the world becomes “wary of doing business with Indonesia,” perhaps the world should first become more wary of reading contract annexes. 

On “A Bad Example of Leadership”

You said President Prabowo had shown the world how a government should not be run. We understand. From Singapore, everything may appear delightfully straightforward: there is gas, send gas; there is a contract, read the contract; there is criticism, write an open letter.

But in Indonesia, the government has a slightly different set of chores: keeping the lights on and industries running in Batam, Bintan and Sumatra; ensuring that citizens do not run short of energy; and managing facilities that occasionally require maintenance—not because they wish to needle a neighbour, but because pipelines and plants are not magical objects that never grow tired.

So perhaps the better example of leadership is not “never reduce exports,” but rather: prioritise one’s own people when supply is constrained, provided one still honours the contract.

On “Reputational Suicide”

You described Indonesia’s action as “reputational suicide.” We were almost shaken. Almost.

Then we looked at the figures supplied by Singapore itself: the Energy Market Authority said the total reduction amounted to 17 BBTUD over 18 days, or less than 2 per cent of Singapore’s daily gas demand.

So, if less than 2 per cent of gas demand can cause “reputational suicide,” we fear Singapore’s reputation must be extraordinarily fragile. Or, more politely: perhaps the phrase “reputational suicide” should be reviewed by your communications consultants.

On Covid-19 Assistance

You reminded us of Singapore’s assistance to Indonesia during the pandemic. We appreciate it, truly. Medical aid, vaccines and coordination during a crisis are memories that should not be forgotten.

But allow us to explain one simple point: humanitarian assistance is not a gas-subscription coupon.

If every past act of goodwill must be repaid with unlimited energy supplies, the world will become an exhausting place. Every country will keep receipts, record debts of gratitude, and later demand payment in kilowatts, cubic metres, or supermarket discounts.

Friendship should indeed be preserved. But healthy friendship does not require one party to keep exporting gas while its own people need electricity.

On “The World Will Be Wary”

You wrote that this episode has taught the world to be wiser and more cautious when doing business with Indonesia. We agree. The world should indeed be wise and cautious.

Cautious when reading contracts. Wise when calculating percentages. And exceptionally cautious when someone describes an 8 per cent reduction as a national catastrophe, while Singapore itself says the impact is less than 2 per cent of its daily gas demand.cnbcindonesia+1

If this is what is meant by “waking up the world,” then the world must have been sleeping very soundly. 

On “An Unreliable Country”

You implied that Indonesia is an unreliable partner. We understand the concern, but we would also like to remind you: a reliable country does not necessarily mean a country that must keep exporting gas until its own homes go dark.

Indonesia is still supplying the overwhelming majority of its contracted volumes. Of 409.5 MMSCFD, only 31 MMSCFD has been reduced. The remainder remains far above the contractual minimum.kompas+2

Therefore, if we may summarise this in business language, you will appreciate: this is not a default, not a breach of contract, and not necessarily reputational suicide. It is closer to a contract-compliant supply adjustment, accompanied by communication that may indeed need improvement.

One Thing We Acknowledge

We shall not defend everything blindly. One point in your letter deserves a serious answer: communication.

If a trading partner feels surprised, the government should explain more quickly: how long the adjustment will last, what the technical reasons are, when supply will be restored, and what contractual mechanisms apply. Singapore itself has noted that its gas importer may pursue contractual remedies.

That is not a sign that the world should fear Indonesia. It is a sign that commercial relations must be managed with data, contracts and communication—not merely with open letters full of “thank yous.”

So, Mr Patrick, once again: thank you.

Thank you for reminding us that international criticism is sometimes written faster than the contract figures are read. Thank you for showing that a small percentage of gas demand can become thousands of words. And thank you for allowing us to write a reply longer than strictly necessary.

We continue to respect Singapore as a neighbour, partner and friend. We remain committed to contracts, cooperation and a mutually beneficial relationship.

But we would like to close with one simple message:

Gas may be reduced temporarily. Contracts must still be honoured. But hasty conclusions? Those are the one export Indonesia would rather not send.

Thank you for your open letter. In return—politely, and with rather more rhyme—please accept these modest verses from Indonesia.

At dawn the birds drift toward the cloud,

A gentle breeze runs by the stream;

Thank you for words so clear and loud,

Though facts may differ from the theme.

From Natuna’s fields the gas flows far,

Across the sea to a neighbouring shore;

A small reduction is no war,

So long as contracts stand as before.

Four hundred and nine flow through the line,

Thirty-one alone are set aside;

Do not rush to fault or malign,

First read the limits both sides abide.

A pipeline needs its time to mend,

A plant may pause and take its rest;

The aim was never to offend,

But keep the home front safely blessed.

The lamps still glow in our own land,

Our industries continue on;

To guard one’s people is a command,

While honouring agreements not withdrawn.

The Covid aid shall not be lost,

It lives in memory and in prayer;

Yet kindness is not chains, whatever the cost,

Nor grounds to claim what is not there.

Two per cent of a nation’s need,

Became a storm that shook the earth;

Sarcasm is a lovely breed,

But numbers speak with greater worth.

An open letter sounds refined,

With “thank you” echoed time anew;

Yet wisdom asks a calmer mind:

Read every clause before you construe.

A neighbour dear we still esteem,

Through trade and trust our ties remain;

Gas may be adjusted, as it may seem,

So long as goodwill does not wane.

The bird returns to nest at night,

The sunset fades beyond the west;

Warm greetings from the archipelago’s light—

May reason guide us, and differences rest.

Yours respectfully,

Indonesians who believe that reading a contract is also part of diplomacy

The figures and claims in this letter refer to Indonesian government statements and Singaporean energy-authority remarks: total piped exports of 409.5 MMSCFD, a reduction of 31 MMSCFD or about 8 per cent, a contractual minimum of roughly 91–92 MMSCFD, and an impact on Singapore of less than 2 per cent of daily gas demand over 18 days.

Bahasa

What Passport Does the Smoke Carry?

A satirical note on the hunt for Indonesia’s forest-fire culprits, who are always somewhere else

Whenever the sky over Singapore turns from blue to a yellowish grey, the nations of Southeast Asia suddenly become philosophers. The question is always the same, and always a deep one: who, exactly, lit the fire? The most popular answer, which arrives faster than the findings of any investigation, is that the culprit must be someone else. Preferably someone who lives far away, so there is no risk of bumping into them at the corner café.

So in October 2026, when haze from southern Sumatra and Kalimantan once again drifted across to that tidy island state, a new rumour began circulating in family WhatsApp groups. Apparently, it said, many of the companies behind the fires were based in Singapore. The rumour had every ingredient that fast-spreading rumours like: a foreign party, a dash of irritation, and not a single link to a source. It was forwarded with three exclamation marks and a noble plea at the end: share before it gets deleted. 

A Passport Nobody Ever Checks

Let us examine the rumour with the diligence of an immigration officer, for the truth, like an important visitor, ought to have its papers inspected. What actually happened is the reverse of the rumour. The Singapore government, through its environment agency, is investigating companies suspected of links to hotspots in Indonesia. Preliminary findings named seven companies, and eight senior executives representing ten companies were summoned to give explanations. Eight people representing ten companies is the sort of efficiency any bureaucracy might envy, though that was probably not what the summoners had in mind.

So those in Singapore are not the suspects but the investigators. Even so, this can still confuse us, because some of the companies under scrutiny do have ties to that country. Here the WhatsApp rumour found a small seed of truth, which it promptly grew into a tree of conclusions as tall as a mobile mast. 

Ownership, Russian-Doll Style

The small seed of truth is this. The plantation business has mastered an art of ownership that resembles a set of Russian nesting dolls. On the outside sits an Indonesian company, a PT, where the plantations and mills are located. That PT is owned by a company ending in Pte Ltd in Singapore. That company is owned by a parent in a place whose name sounds like a honeymoon destination. The parent is owned by a foundation, and the foundation is owned by a man who, once every doll has been opened, turns out to live on a housing estate in South Jakarta, with fishing as his hobby.

In 2019, an Indonesian official explained something similar. According to him, a number of palm oil companies listed on the Singapore exchange were in fact owned by Indonesians. In other words, the smoke comes from Indonesia, the shares are traded in Singapore, the owners are Indonesian, and the coughing is shared out equally among everyone who breathes it in. It may be the only form of ASEAN economic integration that runs completely smoothly, free of non-tariff barriers.

As a wholly invented example, imagine PT Kabut Abadi Sejahtera Tbk. Its head office is in a glass tower whose air conditioning is so cold that its staff never learn that the sky outside is grey. Its shareholders are scattered across three countries and four time zones. The only party whose nationality cannot be determined is the smoke, and that is only because smoke has never applied for a passport. 

The Shy Flame

We come now to the question that most tests common sense: who lit the fire? Here satire runs out of material, because reality has already been working hard. Fire, as understood in the long tradition of self-defence, is a shy creature. It never turns up when sought and always turns up when unwelcome. It seldom admits to being anyone’s delivery, preferring to describe itself as an uninvited guest that wandered over from the neighbouring plot.

A fictional spokesperson for PT Kabut Abadi Sejahtera would explain, with a concerned expression and a well-rehearsed tone, that the fire came from the neighbour’s land. The neighbour, through its own spokesperson, would explain that it came from the land next door. This chain of explanation carries on from concession to concession and village to village, until it arrives at a tract of forest that is administratively owned by a party named Nobody At All. We thereby learn that Nobody At All is the largest landowner in the republic, and also the most consistent suspect in the history of forest fires.

Unfortunately for the defenders of the shy flame, times have changed. Satellites cannot be negotiated with. They do not do pleasantries, accept coffee or care about family ties. They simply record that on such a date, at such coordinates, there was a hotspot, and then match it against the concession map. A map, as we know, is the most unfeeling document in the world after the electricity bill. 

The Task Force: Cure for All Ills

Faced with a matter this complicated, two countries took a step typical of civilised nations: they formed a joint task force. In our part of the world such as Indonesia, the task force is a kind of talisman. If the problem is big, set up a task force. If it is very complicated, set up a task force with members from two countries. And if the problem has dragged on for years, give the task force an acronym that rolls nicely off the tongue at press conferences. Indonesia welcomed Singapore’s offer to share data, and here we must be fair: cooperation of this kind is progress, far better than lobbing protest notes at each other across the strait.

Still, it would be as well to remind the task force of one small thing. The people breathing the smoke are not spectators at a hearing. They are not waiting for two ministries to polish the wording of a joint statement. They are waiting for a sky they can see from the window, something that in some villages in Sumatra and Kalimantan has become a fond memory, like the sweets of childhood.

Meanwhile, the business owners have said they are ready to cooperate, which should of course be noted with a charitable presumption. Nothing is more heartening than a company willing to help investigate fires on land it manages. We can only hope the help is as sincere as their dismay at the damage to air quality, which surely plagues the directors too each time they drive to the office. 

Those Who Always Know Their Nationality

Amid all this confusion over who belongs to which country, one party is never confused: the lungs. The lungs of a primary-school child in Palangkaraya, a market trader in Palembang and an office worker in Jurong West alike do not care which exchange a company is listed on. They know only one thing, which is that today’s air feels like breathing in exhaust fumes. N95 masks, for their part, work across borders without needing a visa.

Perhaps that is the lesson. Smoke carries no passport, but responsibility holds a double passport, even a triple one, and travels very well to everywhere except the address we are looking for. We can go on debating whether the culprit is from here or from there, a local company or a foreign parent, a corporation or Nobody At All. But good law does not ask whose passport is held; it asks who has a duty to keep that land from burning.

We must, of course, remain honest. The investigation is not finished, and until there is a ruling, no company should be branded guilty merely because its name appears in a headline or a WhatsApp group. The presumption of innocence applies even to companies whose land is smouldering. But that principle must not become a blanket for covering up the fact that every year we replay the same scene: fire, smoke, finger-pointing, meetings, a task force, and then the rain arrives and everyone quietly feels the matter is settled. Until the next dry season, when the same philosophical question is reopened: who lit that fire?

Note: this is satire. All characters and companies in it are invented, and any resemblance to real names is coincidental. The setting draws on reporting from October 2026 about the Singapore government’s investigation into companies suspected of links to forest and land fires (karhutla) in Indonesia, and the joint task force set up by the two countries. That investigation is still under way and has not produced a ruling against anyone.

Bahasa

Stitching the 1928 Promise Back Together

A Reflection on Sumpah Pemuda, Indonesia’s Youth Pledge Day

Every year on 28 October, Indonesians pause to look back at a modest meeting hall in Batavia, the colonial city now known as Jakarta, in the year 1928. At that time the vast archipelago we now call Indonesia was still the Dutch East Indies, a colony ruled from the other side of the world. In that hall, young people from many different regional organisations sat side by side and discussed something that, in their day, sounded almost impossible: a single nation. They arrived with different organisational names, accents, customs and interests, yet they left with one pledge that would later become the foundation of the Indonesian republic. That pledge is known as Sumpah Pemuda, the Youth Pledge, and the day that commemorates it is Hari Sumpah Pemuda, or Youth Pledge Day. It is more than a date on the calendar. It is an invitation to look in the mirror and ask whether the promise made nearly a century ago is still alive in us today.

What is easily overlooked is that those young people were not working in comfortable circumstances. The colonial authorities kept a close watch on political gatherings, places to meet were limited, and the differences among the participants themselves were far from small. Groups such as Jong Java, Jong Sumatranen Bond, Jong Celebes and Jong Ambon each had a strong sense of regional pride, and it would have been very easy for each of them to stop at defending their own corner. Instead, they chose the opposite. They set aside part of their egos for the sake of something larger than themselves. Unity, in other words, did not come about because everyone became the same. It came about because people who were different were willing to move closer to one another.

The first reflection worth taking away from that event is that unity is the result of a decision, not a gift handed down by circumstance. We often imagine being Indonesian as something already finished, an inheritance to be enjoyed. Yet the young people of 1928 show that togetherness has to be worked at, tended and chosen again and again. Today, when differences of opinion so readily divide us online, the temptation to retreat into groups of like-minded people feels stronger than ever. Echo chambers that only ever connect us with people who think as we do widen the distance between fellow citizens. It is precisely here that the spirit of the Youth Pledge finds its most practical relevance: the courage to keep sitting at the same table as those with whom we disagree.

Language, too, holds a lesson of its own. At that congress, Indonesian, which grew out of the Malay language, was affirmed as the language of national unity. The decision deserves admiration because no large regional language was crowned the winner. By choosing a language that did not belong exclusively to one dominant ethnic group, the young delegates created a space that everyone could inhabit on equal terms. Bahasa Indonesia went on to become the bridge that allows a child from the far west of the archipelago and a child from the far east to understand one another. Those of us who use it every day often forget that this convenience is the fruit of an agreement that was far from easy to reach. Looking after the Indonesian language means using it well and with respect, without belittling the many regional languages that are part of the country’s wealth, and without feeling embarrassed about one’s own.

The next reflection concerns the meaning of youth itself. Many of the delegates at the Youth Congress were in their twenties, an age when most people are still busy arranging their own futures. Even so, they chose to think about a shared future. They did not wait to become officials; they did not wait for a title, and they did not insist on ideal conditions. They acted with what they had: a willingness to learn, an ability to organise, and a conviction that a good idea would eventually find its way. This matters a great deal for today’s generation, which has grown up with access to information and technology that its predecessors could scarcely have imagined. The question is no longer whether we have the tools, but what we choose to use them for. The smartphone in our hand can be a classroom and a workshop, but it can just as easily become an escape that consumes our time and draws our attention away from the problems around us.

It must also be admitted that the challenges facing young Indonesians today differ from those of the colonial era. The adversary is no longer a foreign ruler. It is something subtler, and it often hides within ourselves: apathy, the habit of sharing news without checking whether it is true, the ease with which we are provoked by sentiments that divide, and the urge to chase instant recognition without the patience that real achievement demands. There is also inequality of opportunity, which means that not every young person starts from the same line, as well as environmental problems that will be handed down to them. Giving meaning to independence demands far more perseverance than winning it did, because the struggle no longer comes with applause and spotlights. It takes place in quiet, everyday work.

For this reason, living out the Youth Pledge does not have to wait for a grand stage. It can be seen in small things: a university student who chooses to befriend someone from a very different background, a young employee who stays honest when honesty is costly, a social media user who hesitates before sharing something whose source is unclear, or a young person from a village who studies hard and then returns to bring new life to their home community. Actions like these may never make it into the history books, but it is from the accumulation of such small kindnesses that a nation becomes real. A country is not held up by grand speeches alone. It is held up by good habits practised consistently by millions of people.

One more thing deserves reflection, and that is humility towards history. We did not inherit Indonesia ready-made. Countless people whose names we do not know risked their time, their energy and even their safety so that we could live in an independent and sovereign state. We remember them not out of nostalgia, but in order to nurture a sense of responsibility. Someone who realises how much they have received from earlier generations will find it easier to feel a duty to give to the generations that follow. In that healthy sense of indebtedness, the Indonesian spirit of gotong royong, or mutual cooperation, finds its home.

In the end, the Youth Pledge is a promise, and a promise has meaning only when it is kept. Its three vows, to one homeland, one nation and one language, were never meant to remain sentences recited at ceremonies. They call for expression in conduct: loving one’s country by caring for it, respecting fellow citizens whatever their origins, and upholding the language of unity wholeheartedly. Perhaps the most honest question we can put to ourselves today is this: what have we done, however small, to keep that promise alive?

Happy Youth Pledge Day. May each of us, young and formerly young alike, stitch the promise of 1928 together again with fresh thread: honesty, compassion and the courage to work together for a fairer and more dignified Indonesia.

Bahasa

The Cold Crown and the Warming Flame

On Love, Power, and the Human Need to Be Recognised

An old saying sounds simple yet holds real depth: love needs no crown. It's easy to accept it as a pretty phrase, but behind its beauty lies a question we seldom ask honestly. If love does not need a crown, then who, or what, actually does? To answer it, we must first understand what a crown really does, and why people have always been so drawn to it.

A crown is, at heart, a sign. It adds nothing to intelligence, it does not nurture wisdom, and it does not make its wearer any more deserving than anyone else. Its only function is to signal to whoever looks upon it that before them stands someone who must be acknowledged, honoured, and obeyed. That is why crowns were born of a world built on recognition, hierarchy, and legitimacy. A king requires one not to be loved but to make his authority visible and beyond doubt. In this sense, a crown works like a language: it tells the many who stands above and who stands below.

From here we can see that the need for a crown belongs not only to kings and queens. Ambition requires one, because it lives on triumphs that can be witnessed. To the ambitious, an achievement no one sees feels hollow, as though it had never happened. Vanity needs one too, since it cannot bear the shadows; it only feels real when eyes are watching and voices are praising. Power needs one as well, for without emblems and ceremony it feels fragile, and those symbols cover over that fragility. And ego, the subtlest and the closest to all of us, needs a crown because it fears being ordinary. How often are we not chasing something of real worth, but merely avoiding the feeling of being insignificant?

What is striking is that all these needs are rooted in a sense of lack. A person who is sure of their own worth has no need to announce it. Conversely, the more loudly someone demands recognition, the more likely it is that anxiety lies hidden beneath. In this light, a crown is not proof of strength but a prop for something afraid of collapsing. It is worn because there is doubt to be concealed, and the heavier and more dazzling the crown, the greater the doubt that may lie beneath it.

Love stands on an entirely different side. Love does not seek a throne, because its truth lies not in display but in presence. Those who love do not need to be seen loving for their love to be real. They are present when someone is ill in the middle of the night, they listen without hurrying to interrupt, they stay when things are unpleasant, and they give without counting. None of this earns applause, nor is it meant to. One might say love is naked and unadorned, yet precisely because nothing has been polished, there is nothing that can be spoiled by the collapse of an image. Crowns are for thrones; love is for hearts.

The idea comes alive more vividly through a parable. Once upon a time, in a kingdom of marble halls, there lived a king who wore a crown heavy with jewels. In the sunlight it glittered so brilliantly that his subjects were dazzled. Yet when night fell and the guards had gone, the crown turned cold, and its weight pressed upon the king’s brow like iron. The splendour that made others marvel gave him no peace. He possessed everything that could be seen, but nothing that could be felt.

Beyond the palace walls lived a woman who wore no crown at all. All she carried was a small flame in her heart. Its warmth lit the faces of those around her, even though no one bowed when her name was spoken. She had no title and no followers to cheer her, and she needed neither. People came to her not because they were obliged to, but because in her company they felt restored.

The king, restless amid his luxury, eventually sought her out. He told her that he had a crown but no peace, while she had no crown yet shone brighter than gold, and he asked her to explain. The woman answered calmly that crowns are for thrones, for those who must prove that they rule, whereas love rules without decree. His crown bound him to power; her flame bound her to life.

Her answer struck home not because it was complicated but because it was honest. The king realised that all along he had been tied to something that had to be defended, guarded, and displayed. So he set his crown down upon the table and sat beside her. There was no ceremony and no proclamation. In that quiet he understood that a crown may command obedience, but only love can move the heart.

This parable teaches something that reaches far beyond palace affairs. All of us, to differing degrees, wear crowns of our own. Some take the form of a position, others of a title, a following, a reputation, or simply the habit of always appearing to be right in front of others. These crowns are not necessarily bad, and some are genuinely needed to order our shared life. The trouble begins when we start to believe that the crown is who we are, or when we carry it into rooms that ought to be filled only with warmth: into the home, into friendship, into our bonds with those we hold dear. A husband who behaves like a ruler in his own house, a parent who demands obedience instead of nurturing trust, or a friend who always needs to seem superior is bringing a crown to a place that has no use for it.

The key lies in being willing to set it down. Laying down the crown does not mean abandoning responsibility or humbling oneself excessively; it means having the courage to be present as a human being, just as one is. That is where real relationships begin, because others are no longer facing a role but a person. We may lose some of the praise, but we gain something no jewel can buy: genuine closeness.

In the end, the difference between crown and flame can be put quite simply. A crown presses down, whereas a flame lifts up. A crown burdens its wearer and keeps others at a distance, whereas a flame gives its keeper light and draws near whoever is around. So the question worth asking ourselves is not how high a crown we wear, but how warm a flame we carry. For when night comes and all the cheering has died away, what keeps us company is not the glitter of jewels, but whether or not someone is sitting beside us.

Bahasa