Kamar yang Terlalu Nyaman
Lampunya nyala. Kerannya ngalir. Wifi-nya lancar.
Di negeri ini, kalimat barusan sudah kedengaran seperti pamer.
Di layar, Padang tenggelam.
Air turun dari bukit membawa rumah, sajadah, buku tulis anak sekolah.
Gue scroll. Jempol gue kering.
Mereka basah sampai ke tulang.
Di Kalimantan, orang-orang menghirup asap
dari hutan yang dibakar demi kebun orang kaya
yang tinggal jauh dari asapnya.
Di NTT, tanah sudah berhenti bergoyang,
tapi perut belum.
Ada yang masih menunggu makan
sementara di kota, nasi dibagikan di depan kamera.
Gizi diukur dari jumlah spanduk.
Lauknya foto.
Bali mulai kehabisan bensin.
Gue belum. Belum.
Kata itu sekarang gue pegang kayak jimat.
Kursi-kursi menteri dikocok lagi,
seperti kartu remi jam dua pagi.
Kartunya ganti, tangannya sama.
Gunung dikeruk, laut berkarat,
dan seseorang di ruangan dingin bilang ini demi masa depan.
Masa depan siapa, bangsat?
Masa depan anak lo, cucu lo, rekening lo?
Karena masa depan kami
lo jual per ton.
Dan ini bagian paling brengseknya:
gue marah dari tempat yang hangat.
Gue capek sambil kenyang.
Rasa bersalah ini gak bisa gue sumbangkan,
gak bisa jadi beras, gak bisa jadi tenda,
gak bisa jadi air bersih buat siapa pun.
Tapi gue tetap nulis.
Karena kalau yang di kamar nyaman pun diam,
yang di pengungsian makin gak kedengaran.
Lo yang baca ini,
gue gak minta lo setuju.
Gue cuma minta satu hal:
jangan biasa.
Jangan biasa lihat banjir jadi angka.
Jangan biasa lihat asap jadi cuaca.
Jangan biasa lihat orang lapar jadi berita kemarin.
Jangan biasa dengar demi masa depan
dari mulut yang gak pernah antre bensin.
Karena begitu kita biasa,
mereka menang tanpa perlu ngapa-ngapain.
Dari tadi gue mau nulis,
tapi kepala gue terlalu penuh.
Terlalu marah. Terlalu capek
Dan gue sadar, capek gue ini mewah:
gue capek karena baca berita,
mereka capek karena jadi beritanya.
Sementara yang seharusnya ngurus mereka
gak kelihatan capek sama sekali.
Marah ini mungkin gak ngasih makan siapa-siapa.
Tapi setidaknya dia bikin gue tetap melek.
Dan di negeri yang pengin rakyatnya capek dan diam,
melek itu sudah setengah melawan.
A Room Too Comfortable
I’m writing this from my room.
The lights are on. The tap runs. The wifi is fast.
In this country, that sentence already sounds like bragging.
On my screen, Padang is drowning.
Water comes down the hills carrying houses, prayer mats, a schoolkid’s notebook.
I scroll. My thumb is dry.
They’re soaked to the bone.
In Kalimantan, people breathe smoke
from forests burned for some rich man’s plantation,
a man who lives far from the smoke.
In NTT, the ground has stopped shaking,
but the stomachs haven’t.
People are still waiting to eat
while in the cities, rice is handed out in front of cameras.
Nutrition is measured by the number of banners.
The side dish is a photo op.
Bali is running out of fuel.
I haven’t. Not yet.
I hold those two words now like an amulet.
The minister chairs get shuffled again
like a deck of cards at two in the morning.
New cards, same hands.
Mountains gutted, the sea gone rust,
and someone in an air-conditioned room says this is for the future.
Whose future, you fukkin bastard?
Your kids’, your grandkids’, your bank account’s?
Because our future
you’re selling by the ton.
And here’s the worst part:
I’m angry from somewhere warm.
I’m tired on a full stomach.
This guilt can’t be donated,
can’t become rice, can’t become a tent,
can’t become clean water for anyone.
You, reading this,
I’m not asking you to agree.
I’m asking one thing:
don’t get used to it.
Don’t get used to floods becoming numbers.
Don’t get used to smoke becoming weather.
Don’t get used to hungry people becoming yesterday’s news.
Don’t get used to hearing for the future
from mouths that have never queued for fuel.
Because the moment we get used to it,
they win without lifting a finger.
I’ve been trying to write all afternoon,
but my head is too full.
Too angry. Too tired.
And I realize my tiredness is a luxury:
I’m tired from reading the news,
they’re tired from being the news.
Meanwhile, the ones meant to take care of them
don’t look tired at all.
This anger might not feed anyone.
But at least it keeps me awake.
And in a country that wants its people tired and quiet,
staying awake is already half a fight.
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