In a land like Indonesia, blessed with meetings, minutes, signatures, rubber stamps and paper trails, there lives one rare species that has somehow survived every law of the archive: the person who suddenly forgets. Its natural habitat is the air-conditioned meeting room, complete with lukewarm tea, a plate of biscuits and a stack of papers awaiting initials. They attended the meeting. They listened to the discussion with every appearance of attention. They nodded gravely at precisely the right moments, and when matters grew serious, they sometimes even signed the conclusions with a firm and confident hand. Nobody suspected a thing. The species looked healthy, its memory sharp, its gaze reassuring, right up until the wind changed direction.
Once, people created archives to help memory. Papers were bound, files were folded, folders were arranged in order, all so that later generations would not have to guess what had actually happened. Now archives exist to rebut forgetting. In the digital age, people can still forget, but documents cannot. Archives cannot. Screenshots cannot. And most dangerous of all, a signature never suffers from amnesia. It does not age, it does not feel embarrassed, it has no career to protect, and it cannot be talked round over a quiet drink at the club.
A photograph is a witness that cannot be bribed. A document is a witness that cannot be bullied. An archive is a witness that cannot be persuaded to forget. These three witnesses work without pay, without perks and without any fear of being reshuffled. It is hardly surprising, then, that for some people the greatest enemy is not the opposition benches but the filing cabinet standing silently in the corner of the room, watching patiently and waiting its turn to be opened.
Yet years later, when the political wind has shifted, their memories undergo a curious natural phenomenon. Everything that was once clear slowly dissolves into fog. What was bright becomes hazy. What was discussed becomes "I don't believe that was discussed". What was approved becomes "I have no idea where that came from". What was signed becomes, somehow, "probably just a routine initial". Strangely, the fog only descends around certain chairs, and only in certain seasons, usually just as the seat begins to feel rather warm.
Perhaps medical science ought to study this ailment more seriously, because its symptoms never seem to afflict ordinary people. How odd. One never hears of a fishmonger forgetting that he sells fish. One never hears of a cabbie forgetting that he drives a taxi. One never hears of a shop assistant forgetting that she took the payment, let alone a car park attendant forgetting that he has just asked for two pounds. These people live in a world that is unforgiving to the forgetful: miscount once, and the customer demands the difference on the spot. Perhaps that is why their memories are so well trained. In politics, however, a person can forget something whose trail is still preserved in documents, recordings, news reports and even in his own handwriting, and still sleep soundly, with a full stomach and a perfectly knotted tie.
More interesting still, forgetting in politics is not a permanent condition. It is a seasonal one. It arrives on demand. When a decision proves rewarding, memory performs flawlessly: the date, the time, the name of the room and even the sandwiches are recalled in loving detail, together with the claim that the whole idea was theirs. When the decision becomes a burden, memory abruptly takes early retirement, with no ceremony, no leaving do and no forwarding address. So the real problem was never forgetting.
Human beings are, after all, forgetful creatures. There are two kinds of forgetting. The first sends a person hunting through the house for the keys. The second sends a person hunting through the files for his own signature. We forget where we put the keys. We forget a friend's birthday. We forget to buy milk on the way home and arrive with everything except the one thing we went out for. That is perfectly normal. That is only human. Nobody calls a press conference to explain the missing milk.
But there is a great difference between forgetting because of human limitation and forgetting because of situational convenience. The one is born of a frailty of memory. The other is born of an agility of interests. The first leaves its owner embarrassed and apologetic. The second leaves its owner calm and requesting more time. This is what makes the satire worth writing, for the saying in its title is not really about memory at all. It is about integrity. It is about the courage to admit that we were once in a particular room, that we heard a particular discussion, that we were part of a particular decision, even if today that decision is no longer comfortable to remember.
In an age when everyone is racing to build a personal brand, honesty may have become a luxury good, sold in limited quantities, and not everyone can afford it. It is easier to change the story than to admit involvement. It is cheaper to quibble over the past than to take responsibility for it. And it is safer to say, "I have no recollection," than to say, "Yes, I agreed to it." The first needs only four words and a little acting. The second needs every ounce of nerve saved up since the swearing-in.
And yet history has a nasty habit: it likes to keep records. Archives have an even nastier one: they cannot join in the forgetting. They do not care who is in power, they do not read the weather vane, and they are never invited to the reputation-management seminar. They simply sit in the folder, in the file share, in the cloud, waiting for someone to open the right page. And once that page is open, no fog is thick enough to cover it.
In the end, perhaps the matter is quite simple. The country is not short of clever people. The country is not short of legal experts. The country is not short of politicians, least of all those who give eloquent speeches about honesty. What is often in short supply is the person who, when confronted with an old document, still dares to say:
"Yes, that is indeed my signature." For forgetting can still be forgiven, but disowning one's own signature in front of an archive that never forgets is no longer amnesia. It is a confession, merely delivered in reverse. And ink, unlike memory, has never had a vested interest.
