I was writing this nervous note about three months ago at my Linkedin. As now I have my public blog, I am reposting it here with some addition.

It was almost a week since the first wave of demonstrations at the House of Parliament Indonesia in Jakarta. The spark was the result of unresolved problems in social, economic, and political. It pile up, yet the government seems busy polishing grand spectacles that looks good but do very little to patch the potholes of reality. And we are walking far opposite from our direction. Conspiracy theories are spreading. Oh, how I am tempted to discuss them.

One thing is certain: people are suffering. Our days are filled with anger, exhaustion, and grief. And yet, somehow, amid the chaos, I find myself oddly grateful to be Indonesian, as our sense of humor remains intact.
Even in our darkest moments, we laugh. We laugh at ourselves, at the absurdity of it all, at the irony is so thick it could be bottled and sold.

During the riots, I saw things that made me laugh and cry at the same time. One image sticks in my mind today: as a police station went up in flames, a street vendor calmly continued to fry ‘tahu bulat’ (tofu) and serving customers like that fire is just an attraction background. Then someone commented, “that’s the real definition of working under pressure.” I laughed hard, because it was funny, because it was tragic, because it was us. It is me.

Once again this week, Sumatra is struck by devastating floods. My hearts go out to the families enduring loss, fear, and uncertainty, with people still missing and the death toll continuing to rise. Yet as the situation worsens, politicians and high-ranking public officials parade through the affected areas, turning tragedy into a backdrop for their photo ops. Their visits feel like cosmetic gestures with polished smiles, fake tears and fashion show stretched over hollow intentions. It would be comedic if it weren’t so tragic.

And before long, their memes scatter across social media like vermin. Perhaps it’s a cruel kind of comfort, but calling out this performative sympathy may be the only way left to remind them of their own humanity, if shame is what it takes for them to finally act with sincerity.

Finland and Bhutan may hold the global title of “happiest country,” but I suspect we Indonesians might secretly be the happiest people on earth. As we are able to crack jokes and find little joy in scraps of normalcy, even in the middle of smoke and sirens. Even while mocking the politicians, we’re somehow able to find other stories that warm our heart.

Or maybe joy is an illusion, and we’re simply masters at packaging misery with a smile. It is a proof that survival in Indonesia is less about endurance, more about improvisation. And with that strange skill, I believe we can fight our way out of this situation.