The row over Article 18(3) of KPU Regulation No. 19 of 2023 has lately stopped being merely a matter of documents and procedure. It has become an exchange of barbs between two men who once sat in very high chairs: Hasyim Asy’ari, the former chairman of the General Elections Commission (KPU), and Ahmad Doli Kurnia Tandjung, the former chairman of Commission II of the House of Representatives (DPR).
As reported, Hasyim rejected the accusation that a ‘smuggled-in article’ had found its way into the regulation. He insisted that the article in question was discussed and approved in an official forum attended by a variety of parties. From there came a sentence that quickly drew attention:
‘Forget if you must, but do not be a hypocrite.’
He even framed the remark with an allegory of the angels Munkar and Nakir, who, in Islamic tradition, question the dead in the grave. Here they were to ask who had attended, who had known, and who had agreed to the discussion of the draft regulation. Doli did not let it pass. He replied that the sentence was better aimed at Hasyim himself, alluding to his record as head of the KPU, questioning his appointment as a commissioner of a state-owned enterprise, and standing by his view that there was an article missing from the documents the DPR received at the time.
To political analysts, this may be nothing more than the usual argy-bargy of a noisy season. To a satirist, however, it calls to mind an old Malay proverb:
Menepuk air di dulang, terpercik muka sendiri.
Slap the water in the tray, and your own face gets splashed. English has a few cousins for this: people in glass houses should not throw stones; the pot calling the kettle black; spitting into the wind. Yet none of them quite captures the splash itself, which is why this piece borrows its title from the splash.
This article, of course, has no intention of playing judge. Who is right about the article in question is a matter for documents, witnesses and the bodies competent to weigh them. All that follows concerns a fairy-tale country, which happens to be called the Land of the Basin, and whose inhabitants may bear a passing resemblance to the rest of us.
Once upon a time, in a land that held its archives in the highest esteem, there lived two kinds of people.
The first kind liked to carry folders. Their folders were thick, tied with ribbon, and carried with the chin held slightly high, as though the contents were holy scripture. The second kind liked to carry mirrors. Their mirrors were clear, framed in gold, and always pointed at somebody else’s face, as though their own had long ago been cleared of all inspection.
Whenever a dispute broke out, the folder-bearers would cry:
‘Look at this document!’
And the mirror-bearers would retort:
‘Look at yourself!’
What followed was a marvellous spectacle. One side busily turned over sheets of paper. The other busily turned over chapters of the past. Attendance lists were examined, minutes were thumbed through, initials were scrutinised under magnifying glasses, and, in between, somebody’s life story was dragged out of its drawer like a cat made to perform on stage. Nobody wished to lose. Nobody wished to forget. And, most intriguing of all, both sides claimed to be doing nothing more than reminding.
In the Land of the Basin, reminding is the national sport. Its rules are rather peculiar, however: one may remind anybody at all, provided it is not oneself. Even the questions said to be put in the grave had been paid off in instalments, starting in the meeting room. Who attended? Who knew? Who agreed? The angels, people said, no longer needed to work so hard. They only had to wait for the humans to hold the dress rehearsal.
Gradually, the onlookers grew confused. At first they were invited to examine an article. Then they were invited to examine a signature. Then they were invited to examine a curriculum vitae. Soon afterwards, they were invited to examine a job title. The people who had come to watch one clause being inspected went home with notes on everything except that clause.
The quarrel grew like a banyan tree. The root of the matter lay deep underground, while its branches stretched in every direction, sheltering anyone who wished to stand in the shade while throwing stones at the opposite side.
Amid all this commotion, the archive sat quietly.
It did not campaign. It did not argue. It did not take sides. It had no spokesperson, no social media account, and never once demanded a right of reply. It simply waited.
For the archive understood something that humans never seem to grasp. People change. Interests change. Positions change. Enemies change. Friends change. Opinions change too, depending on which chair one happens to be sitting in when asked. But dried ink, as a rule, does not change along with them.
Sitting beside the archive was a mirror. The two were really rather alike. Both said very little. Both were hard to compromise with. Both were quite immune to flattery. There was only one difference. The archive shows what was done. The mirror shows who did it.
That is why people often fear the mirror more than the archive. Paper can be filed away, declared lost, or said to be still under review. A face is much harder to leave in storage.
One day, a wise man in that land remarked:
‘How odd. When someone opens another person’s archive, he forgets that the other person also keeps an archive about him.’
Another replied:
‘And when someone holds up a mirror to his opponent, he forgets that the back of the mirror is still facing him.’
They laughed. Not because it was funny, but because it was true. It was a short laugh, for both of them knew that someone in the corner was taking notes.
Such was life in the Land of the Basin. There, everybody loved to slap the water. They slapped it with accusations. They slapped it with documents. They slapped it with track records. They slapped it with barbs wrapped in allegory, so that they sounded more pious than mere barbs.
And every time a palm struck the surface, the splash flew everywhere. Some landed on the opponent. Some landed on the spectators, who went home with wet clothes and no idea what they had done wrong. But curiously, some always came back to the face of the one who had slapped.
For water has a quality that no rhetoric can defeat: it reflects. It does not read speeches. It does not care who used to chair what. It cannot be persuaded to negotiate over who is allowed to be splashed. And in its reflection, humans sometimes find what they never found in the committee room or in the minutes: the opponent who is hardest of all to argue with.
Themselves.
