Pity

“I never see a wild thing
Sorry for itself.”

—D. H. Lawrence, “Self-Pity”

Did you ever see a wild thing feeling sorry for itself? Perhaps a tiny bird fallen from its nest? Or a kitten lost on its own in some alley? D. H. Lawrence claimed he never did; and neither did I.

Pity—it seems—is an entirely human trait. It’s a feeling we bestow towards those less fortunate than us. It moves us to lend a hand, to help, to sympathize on others’ grief and sorrow. Some of us do it for a gain, some others don’t. Hey! It’s all human.

Yet if you care to look closer, it might be interesting to observe how some people seemed to cultivate more pity than others. Some people seemed to know exactly what story to tell, what expression to wear, which word to use, and to whom they plead … they seemed to glow in their sorrow, playing their roles as victims in an Oscar-quality performance [well, not an Oscar-quality, perhaps. A Kelurahan Theater Competition on Tujuhbelas-Agustusan might do]. And so they cultivate pity like the Valkyries reaping lives in the battlefield. They know exactly how to capitalize each episode of their [usually] never ending sorrow.

Lately I was quite immersed in my observation of one such character. At the beginning, it amused me … that is, until I became nauseated. Well, call me cold-hearted, feel free. But when a beautiful woman with a perfect pedigree regards herself as a helpless little girl in her thirties, claims herself to be drowning in darkness and loneliness all the time—while those darkness and loneliness were obviously self-inflicted—what would you make of it? Surely you’ll be sick of it at some point! Still, it intrigued me how she managed to cultivate pity with such surgeon-like precision. How did she do that? Honestly, I came to admire her talent.

Then, in one misty morning, as I yawned myself through the veil of dawn, it hits me hard as fact: To be able to cultivate pity like that, one should have a monumental amount of self-pity. There is no other way. Pity yourself as if there is no tomorrow, and others would pity you like there’s no other sorrow.

So what would you do if one day you came face-to-face with this kind of character? Would you still let them flourishing in others’ pity? Would you turn away? Would you observe them as I did [it might be amusing for some time]? Or would you shake them hard, hoping they’d get a grip on their lives?

It’s up to you. But I know what I would do. I’d tell them to reclaim the responsibility upon their own dear lives; then I’d slowly turn away and move on to take the responsibility upon my life.

That would be enough for me.

27 December 2008 ; 16. 31

Milik

Seorang perempuan murka, sebab kekasihnya tiba-tiba mengaku mencintai perempuan lain. Padahal mereka hendak menikah, dan janji-janji telah terucap. “Kita saling memiliki!” jeritnya mengoyak malam. Hening menjawabnya di tengah kelam.

Seorang lelaki meringkuk di sudut ruang, siang tadi ia baru diberi tahu, kontrak kerjanya tak akan diperpanjang. Ia tak tahu, bagaimana ia bisa mengabarkan musibah ini pada istrinya di rumah. Tiga anak mereka, semua mesti sekolah. Apa yang bisa ia lakukan? Kini ia bahkan tak sanggup melangkah pulang.

Seorang anak tersedu di pinggir selokan. Buku baru pemberian ibunya jatuh dan hanyut di tengah deras sisa air hujan. Sesiang tadi ia membacakan cerita dalam buku itu pada teman-temannya. Mereka asyik tenggelam dalam kisah petualangan seru yang membawa mereka menjelajah ruang fantasi tak berbatas. Kini buku itu hanyut sudah. Tak ada lagi bacaan seru.

Kehilangan adalah rasa yang selalu menyisakan getir tiap kali ia datang menyapa. Adakah diantara kita yang tak pernah merasakannya? Tidak. Tiada seorangpun terluput dari sentuhannya.

Mana yang lebih berat: kehilangan kekasih, pekerjaan, atau buku? Semua tergantung dari perspektif yang kita punya. Namun saya yakin, tiga individu yang saya sebut di atas merasakan kepedihan yang serupa. Dari titik di mana mereka berpijak, kehilangan yang mereka alami tentu terasa berat.

Ada kalanya seseorang merasa kehilangan segalanya. Sebab terkadang ‘kehilangan’ menyapa kita dalam bentuk jamak; menghantam bertubi tanpa ampun. Memporakporandakan dunia kecil kita; meruntuhkan langit, melontarkan kita ke ruang hampa tanpa pijakan tanpa naungan. Lantas kita tergoda untuk mengutuki hidup yang [seperti] tak punya rasa kasihan.

Ah, sungguhkah hidup sedemikian kejam? Mari kita telaah, apa sesungguhnya yang hilang.

Apakah kita memiliki orang yang kita sebut ‘kekasih’? Tidak. Ia manusia merdeka. Tak ada seorang pun yang bisa memiliki orang lainnya, sebab era perbudakan sudah lagi lewat ditelan arus zaman. Semua orang yang kita cintai bisa saja ‘lenyap’ dari hidup kita; entah karena ia memilih untuk menjalani hidup bersama orang lain, atau karena suatu alasan mesti memutuskan untuk berpisah, atau bahkan karena kematian.

Namun jika kita mencintai orang itu dengan tulus, apakah cinta itu hilang? Tidak, tak akan pernah. Kecuali jika kita memilih untuk mengabaikan cinta yang tulus tersebut dan membiarkannya hilang. Cinta yang tulus tak akan pernah bisa diambil orang lain.

Apakah kita memiliki pekerjaan yang kita lakukan sehari-hari? Tidak. Pekerjaan itu dipinjamkan oleh orang yang mempekerjakan kita… Hanya dipinjamkan. Dan bahkan itu pun bukan miliknya. Pekerjaan hanyalah sekedar nafkah penyambung hidup. Ia bisa hilang kapanpun, dengan beragam sebab yang acap kali datang di luar dugaan.

Ketika kita kehilangan pekerjaan, apakah lantas kita kehilangan kemampuan mencari nafkah, kehilangan daya juang untuk menghidupi diri dan menghidupi orang-orang yang kita kasihi? Tentu tidak. Kemampuan mencari nafkah, daya juang untuk menghidupi orang-orang tersayang tak bisa hilang dari kita, kecuali jika kita membiarkan diri tenggelam dalam keputusasaan. Tak ada yang bisa mengambilnya, hanya kita yang bisa menghilangkannya.

Apa yang penting dari sebuah buku? Substansinya. Secara fisik, sebuah buku hanyalah setumpuk kertas bertulisan yang terjilid dalam sebuah kesatuan. Itu saja, tak lebih. Yang membuatnya penting adalah isinya, kisah yang tertulis di dalamnya, buah pikiran penulis yang tersampaikan pada kita. Ketika kita berhasil menyerap substansi sebuah buku, maka ia telah menyelesaikan tugasnya.

Siapa yang bisa mengambil buah pikir yang pernah kita serap? Tak seorangpun. Hanya jika kita tidak memelihara ingatan dan pikiran, maka substansi tersebut akan menguap tanpa sisa. Tak ada orang lain yang bisa mengambilnya.

Lalu apa yang hilang?

Hal-hal terpenting dalam hidup adalah segala yang tak bisa dirampas oleh orang lain. Cinta kasih yang tulus, daya hidup untuk terus berjuang, pikiran yang selalu kita asah… Tak ada yang bisa mengambil semua itu dari kita. Dan ketika seseorang berkenalan dengan kesadaran ini, maka ia menjadi orang yang sangat kaya: ia telah menjadi manusia merdeka.

Ultimus, 8 Mei 2008 ; 20.21

What's Going On?

A woman wept on the TV screen. Lamented the fate of her husband, convicted as a terrorist, awaiting death on the hand of the righteous law enforcer. “He’s innocent,” she wailed between her sobs. “He’s my husband.” The picture changed, a man in expensive suit with a boring tie. “It’s decided,” he declared, “Justice must be served.” The anchor woman pop in with a plastic smile, announcing another message of grave importance. Floods, catastrophes, war, human idiocy. They call it news, these tragedies. They believe we need to know.

They told us about this war in distant lands, they move us to do something about it. They call us to act, to go beyond the great sea and fight this war of strangers. Solidarity, brotherhood, justice: their words of wisdom. They forgot one more, though: violence. It’s the core of their actions. Violence; they breathe with it, live with it, can do nothing without it. They can’t help it, this cluster of manhood we call ‘human race’. Violence, it’s their language of ‘truth’.

It’s funny, really, the way they define their values. They’re enraged by the news of strangers died in their faraway lands. They rush out to help, to defend those strangers with whom they never shared earth and waters and blood. Promising God’s heaven to anyone naïve enough to listen (what right do they have, promising something that’s not even theirs to offer?). But when they heard of their own sisters wronged so far away from home, the only word of justice they cried out is silence.

And I thought of a bitter debate I had some time ago, when the same righteous people fought to ban abortion, when they forcefully condemned abortion and calling it evil, calling it murder. Where are they now, as the death penalty hover around demanding it’s toll? Why wouldn’t they call it murder? Why wouldn’t they call it evil?

They believe they’re righteous, these people of values. They blinded their eyes to the double standard upon which they build their values—be it as glaringly obvious as it is. They care not about our own sisters who work as TKW being wronged. They care not of the murders performed by our own so-called law. They care not about the violence of neglect continually done by our own government. They care for nothing but their own values.. they cannot feel nor see the hollow emptiness within those values.

So here I am, weeping for their blindness, weeping for their vast majority, weeping for my helplessness to make a difference.

[Friday, 11 August 2006]

pilgrim

she came to me one night, when the moon went dark and the sky pitch black. she wore the cloak of solitude, her face covered by the veil of silence. the evening was full of the singing of darkling-beetles, but all went hushed as she drew nearer. she whispered so softly, but her voice filled the night without mercy: “fear not the dark, for it is the light that burns. in darkness, we are beautiful. in darkness, nothing is impossible. in darkness, we are free.”

i struggled to speak, but my voice deserted me. there we stood, she and i. the pregnant silence filled the space between our bodies. i was frightened, yet i could not move. just being in her presence has petrified me. i saw nothing else but her, heard no other voice but hers, felt no other being but her. in the deepening darkness i could feel her smiling, she took my hand so tenderly. again she whispered, “fear not…”

“why fear loneliness, little darkling? loneliness is where we came at first. why fear death? death is our final home. why fear struggle? struggle is the air we breathe. why fear silence? silence is the illuminating melody of life…” she spoke again in her gentle voice. there was something strange in her voice, it was so soft yet so clear. i could hear nothing else each time she spoke to me; as if her voice was the only sound i ever heard.

she came closer, held my face in her hands. i could feel her eyes pierced me through. i know she was searching for scathing truth. after a moment she took my hand and we walked deeper into the dark. “there is nothing to fear but the fear itself, little darkling,” she whispered again as she squeezed my hand gently in her cool-comforting grasp. “i know you’ve been afraid of solitude,” she turned and caressed my face, “do not afraid of solitude.in solitudine solatium… in your solitude you shall find your solace.”

“i am in love,” i whispered almost inaudibly, “but i was forced to hide in darkness. i am frightened. if love should be so dark, i’d rather know it not. i wish i could stop loving.”

she laughed, not unkindly. she held my body closely, soothed my wounded soul. “who could understand the nature of love? love does whatever love wants; and no one shall know when it shall come, when it shall leave. no one shall know where love came from. ah, love… it is for our kindred, little darkling, love comes out of the blue… straight into the black.”

“but i feel so alone!” i wanted to scream, my tears streamed down.

“alone is how we stand, yet alone we never are,” she dried my tears with her fingers, “separation is the greatest illusion.”

“who are you?” i plead in my stunned confusion.

“i am who i am. i am who you are. we were dispersed yet we are one. i am the pilgrim of the night, black-clad under the evening stars; and so are you.”

and her body disolved into the thickening night-air; yet i feel her presence within.
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17 september 2007 ; 09.50