In a country that prizes appearances above almost everything else, like Indonesia, someone put up a hand and asked a question that sounded perfectly simple: "Why is the coffee machine in your office worth more than your car?" The room fell silent. Not because the question was difficult to answer, but because it touched on something everyone had quietly agreed never to mention, rather like the family scandal tucked away in the bottom drawer and secured with a certified padlock.
The coffee machine stood magnificently in the corner of the office. Its body gleamed, its lights twinkled like a modern-day altar, and every morning people gathered around it in reverent hush, as though the quality of the drink it produced might decide the future of the nation. Some bowed their heads before pressing a button. Others whispered, "Don't touch that one; it's a limited edition." Meanwhile, the old car in the car park simply did what it was meant to do: carry people from one place to another, with no flashing lights, no ceremony, and no expectation of praise. The irony was that the coffee machine was the one that commanded respect.
Before long, the country was full of coffee machines. There was the coffee machine called the title, worn after one's name and carried everywhere like a piece of jewellery. There was the coffee machine called the certificate, framed in gold and hung at eye level so that no visitor could possibly miss it. The coffee machine called the official stamp was said to turn an ordinary sheet of paper into the truth with a single press. And there was the coffee machine called reputation, the dearest and most frequently polished of all, although nobody could remember when it had last brewed anything at all.
Among all these machines, one was truly special: the coffee machine called the degree certificate. It took the form of a thick sheet of paper with convincing ink, a gleaming crest and a signature that curled most elegantly. Its owner stood tall at the lectern and described himself as a graduate in a tone that left no room for doubt. But if anyone was impertinent enough to ask which lecture hall he had sat in, which professor had ever examined him, or which dissertation he had defended, he always answered with a lengthy discourse on the quality of the paper, the weight of the ink, and the astonishing cost of printing. In fact, stables of "buzzers" were even deployed to spin out the narrative, even though these operatives turned out to be utterly dim-witted.
Some of them did not even bother to forge the paper. With nothing but unshakeable confidence, they declared themselves graduates, even though the requirements had never been met: courses unfinished, examinations never sat, obligations never discharged. They were like people announcing that they had arrived at their destination while their car still sat on the drive with a flat tyre. Remarkably, the applause thundered on regardless. Everyone was so dazzled by the machine's shine that nobody could be bothered to check whether there was any water inside it, or any beans, or merely a light bulb that blinked rather well.
Nobody truly knew how these machines were made. Nobody dared to lift the lid. Nobody wished to inspect the wiring, because who knew whether they would find wires at all, rather than cardboard sprayed silver? And so everyone agreed to praise the shiny exterior and nothing more, since praising was far cheaper than examining, and far safer than asking.
When someone asked whether the machine actually worked as it should, the keepers of the building promptly explained the specification of the paint on its surface. When someone asked to see inside, they pointed out how expensive the frame had been. When someone questioned where it had come from, they explained how many people had photographed it, complete with the number of followers and likes. Within days, the questioner was branded rude, unpatriotic and disrespectful of other people's achievements. As if popularity could stand in for authenticity. As if price could stand in for proof. As if display could stand in for substance.
In this country, the truth was treated like the old car. It did not gleam. It did not draw attention. It was not displayed in the main hall, and nobody wanted to be photographed beside it. People only remembered it when the coffee machines began to break down and everyone suddenly needed a lift. Yet it was, in fact, the only thing capable of getting anyone to where they were going.
A coffee machine, however costly, remains a coffee machine. It may produce a lovely aroma, create a cosy atmosphere and even make people feel more confident. A holder of some dubious degree certificate can look wonderfully learned under the right lighting. But it will never take anyone anywhere. A qualification that was never earned will be of no help when a bridge needs calculating, a patient needs treating or the law needs upholding. At such moments, a stamped piece of paper will serve only as a fan, and not a very effective one at that.
Perhaps that is why the question "why is the coffee machine in your office worth more than your car?" feels so unsettling. For it is not really about coffee machines at all. It asks why we spend so much energy guarding symbols while the vehicle that ought to carry us towards the truth is left to rust in the back garden. It asks why we are willing to pay handsomely to appear to have passed, yet unwilling to pay the price of actually learning.
And like every good question, it demands no immediate answer. It simply asks us to look again at what we have been taught to treasure. So tomorrow morning, as you stand in reverent silence before your office's pride and joy, try lifting the lid just once. If all you find is cardboard sprayed silver and a certificate that never passed its exams, do not be shocked. Simply brew your disappointment, add a little sugar, and walk out to the car park. The old car is still waiting, and it has never pretended to be anything other than itself.
