The shape of the world a generation from now will be influenced far more by how we communicate the values of our society to others than by military or diplomatic superiority. William Fulbright, 1964

Tuesday, September 02, 2014


Bland words to save face                                       

It’s taken nine months to produce just 311 words that are supposed to create an ‘understanding on a code of conduct’ for security cooperation between Indonesia and Australia following spying revelations.

Note this is not a code of conduct, but an ‘understanding on’ a code of conduct’.  Not even an ‘understanding of..’ This isn’t English, its bafflegab.

With an output of just over one word a day, authors would have been sacked by their publishers; newspapers employing journalists with this level of productivity would have collapsed.

But this much heralded slice of bureaucratise signed last week (28 Aug) by two foreign ministers, Marty Natalegawa for Indonesia and Julie Bishop for Australia, was never going to be a Lincolnian call to higher purpose.

Its purpose was twofold - to save face, and let outgoing President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono (SBY) retire next month (Oct) with grace having recovered his pride,  clearing the scrub for an academic position in Australia.  

Last year former US intelligence contractor Edward Snowden - brave whistleblower or despicable traitor, depending on your perspective - revealed in The New York Times that Australia had been spying on its nearest neighbor.

Not just eavesdropping suspected bomb-makers but also the phones of SBY -  “a dear and trusted friend” according to Ms Bishop - and his wife of 38 years Kristiani Herawati.   The excuse? It was rumoured she’d been plotting to keep the presidency in the family.

Imagine the fury if we’d found that Indonesia’s intelligence agencies had been listening to Margie Abbott’s intimate chats with her spouse to learn about Liberal pre-selections.  We’d be expelling the Indonesian ambassador and half his colleagues.

Unsurprisingly Indonesians were not amused, yet their reaction was surprisingly restrained. Ambassador Nadjib Riphat Kesoema was withdrawn from Canberra and cooperation in some areas was put on hold. There were small demonstrations outside the Jakarta Embassy, but ambassador Greg Moriarty stayed put.

When authoritarian General Soeharto ruled Indonesia, Australian tourist flights to Bali were turned back when a 1986 newspaper article offended the president. That hurt.

Seasoned observers in both nations agree the August signing changes little; earlier demands for an Australian apology have not been met.  The Jakarta Post editor Meidyatama Suryodiningrat wrote that the document “presents little new other than to smooth over a political rift without really reducing suspicions or even furthering the trust between the two neighbours.”

However he did concede that the ‘joint understanding’ made it easier for president elect Joko Widodo (Jokowi) to start afresh in relations with the Republic’s southern neighbour.
The document has two clauses:
·                    The Parties will not use any of their intelligence, including surveillance capacities, or other sources, in ways that would harm the interests of the Parties.
·                    The Parties will promote intelligence cooperation between relevant institutions and agencies in accordance with their respective national laws and regulations.
What does this mean? Who defines ‘harm’ and how is it measured?  It’s a subjective term. What interests?  Clearly it’s an agreement a lawyer’s clerks could shred.  If it had been a tin of beans shoppers would be demanding a refund having found the can empty.
There are references back to the 2006 Lombok Treaty, a ten-point agreement tagged as a ‘framework for security cooperation’. 
Despite the grand title this is another pedestrian paper. It gives either party opportunities to create their own meanings of open-ended phrases like ‘endeavouring to foster’ and cooperation ‘within the limits of their responsibility.’  If there’s a dispute the English text prevails.
Despite the flaws this is probably as good as it gets when it comes to negotiating agreements between two such radically different nations, cultures and political agendas.
A hard-nosed Indonesian negotiator might have pushed for no spying or trade sanctions would be imposed.  Australia needs Indonesia far more than the reverse. But that was only going to happen with a new administration in Jakarta keen to display its machismo.
SBY, constantly lauded as the best Indonesian president Australia has had, was not inclined to be assertive, wanting settlement before his compulsory retirement after two five-year terms. 
The Indonesian electorate’s interest had also swung to other issues in the wake of the contested presidential election result.
This ensured Australian hands stayed on the keyboard for the word-a-day essay. If there are any Indonesian fingerprints on the page they’re not visible to the naked eye.
First published in On Line Opinion on 2 September 2014

Monday, September 01, 2014


A town of sleaze and no calendar  

You wouldn’t want to stay in Paruk, even if it was the only sanctuary available during a tsunami.  If the fare didn’t finish you, the supernatural would – be extra wary for comets portending tragedy.
This fictional Javanese village is not the quaint abode of gentle rustics who maintain benign traditions while nurturing their fertile slopes.
In the words of Ahmad Tohari, the author of the trilogy The Dancer, the people of Paruk are ‘impoverished and backward … thin, sickly [and] foulmouthed.’  Among this crew of dirty old men and their conniving wives there’s just one attractive inhabitant, a talented artist called Srintil.  She’s inherited the spirit of a long dead ronggeng dancer to become a seductive performer who ‘wooed without words, enticed with the power of magic.’
Srintil was one of the few survivors of a mass poisoning that overtook Paruk in the midst of a drought when many townsfolk died after eating contaminated food.  Raised by a couple of relatives she exhibits her talents at an early age and is soon returning fame and fortune to her otherwise blighted birthplace.
She becomes a prostitute, which is her destiny, but falls in love with her childhood sweetheart Rasus who at times takes the role of narrator.  He gets into the army by accident and finds religion, though remains consumed by desire.
Although we’re told the people of Paruk don’t keep calendars, readers who know the recent history of Indonesia will sense calamity coming.  For this is 1964 and a communist agitator called Bakar (meaning ‘burn’) is stirring the folk, even though they have little interest in abandoning their apathy and don’t even understand the meaning of ‘proletariat’.
Doom approaches, and though Srintil wants out from being the party’s propaganda dancer it’s too late.  Dreadful things are happening in distant Jakarta’s crocodile hole and Paruk is about to be dragged into the pit.
This is a difficult book to grasp emotionally.  Some of it is porn with the author gratuitously embellishing the story, though there’s always been a level of obscenity lurking beneath the politeness and respectability of Javanese culture.
The Serat Centhini [The Javanese Story of Life] commissioned by Surakarta Sultan Pakubuwono V early in the 19th century is so full of sex that translations into modern Indonesian are reportedly still unavailable.
 So it’s surprising that this book was ever published back in the more uptight early 1980s when the censor was king.  It was first serialized as Ronggeng Dukuh Paruk [The dancer of Paruk Village] in Kompas, a high-standard broadsheet keen to promote literature, and with a reputation for the serious, not the salacious.
American ethnomusicologist Rene Lysloff, who translated the text, came across a bound copy of the book by chance when undertaking research in Banyumas [Central Java], and found it fitted his fieldwork:
‘I pondered the ethnographic truth of the novel, wondering whether fiction could be separated from fact in its depiction of an isolated Javanese village and the people who lived there’, he wrote. ‘I felt certain that he [Tohari] had described a real world within the fiction of his novel.’
A ghastly conclusion, for if Paruk and its vile residents represent reality, the police and child protection authorities should be heading into the hinterland right now armed with warrants.
Yet the author is renowned, not as a smut merchant but as a scholar and prolific writer, a Muslim intellectual who advocates a holistic understanding of Islam, ‘one that embraces existing forms of culture.’
At the end of the second book in the trilogy, A Shooting Star at Dawn, the communists break with the culture that nurtured them by vandalizing the graves of the village ancestors. Then arsonists attack. After the coup of 30 September 1965, the slaughter starts.
In the final book, The Rainbow’s Arc Srintil is imprisoned and raped, though not before Tohari has laid some ground rules for the reader, including ‘the courage to acknowledge historical truth.’ 
This is an astonishing statement when set against the current blindness towards the massacres, despite some debate flowing from American film-maker Joshua Oppenheimer’s The Act of Killing.
How did this taboo topic even get into print 30 years ago? Apparently the version in the book is not the one that appeared in Kompas, which was written to fit the government’s view of events.
The horrors, the killings, the moral questions raised and the whole sickening purge of communists, sympathizers and even those like Srintil and her neighbors who had no interest in politics, is confronted.
Here The Dancer finds its worth, though the dilemma remains: In the earlier chapters Paruk and its people are painted in such lewd hues that it’s difficult to feel great sympathy when they are treated brutally.
They didn’t deserve such a fate – no-one did.  They were victims because they were ignorant, just ordinary people with simple beliefs who became useful scapegoats in Soeharto’s time of terror.
Does this mean they are at fault? In this context the story seems to by-pass the author’s aim to honor the nation’s culture and traditions.
Tragedy befalls Paruk ‘because it never tried to find harmony with God’, whatever that means. Dr Lysloff helpfully adds an endnote explaining that the author wanted to describe a community ‘entirely without contemporary notions of sin and virtue’ – and in this he has succeeded.
He has also mastered the tricky art of keeping the reader on track, even when we have little empathy with the characters.  This is stirring drama covering the most significant years since the birth of the nation. 
Some claim it’s been written with raw honesty to make Indonesians see themselves without the benefit of a government lens. Others dismiss Tohari’s work as so much indulgent fantasy that shames a modern nation with strong religious values. For this reviewer the former explanation carries most weight.
The Dancer                                                                                                                                by Ahmad Tohari (translated by Rene TA Lysloff                                                                 Lontar, Jakarta, Modern Library of Indonesia, 2012                                                                         462 pages

(First published in The Jakarta Post 1 September 2014)


City of 100,000 Sacrifices  

They settle on the sidewalk of a pretty park, squatting wherever there’s shade and shelter. Then they unpack their suitcases and like magicians reveal their gifts, talents – and needs.
Indonesian women, mainly 20 and 30 somethings, singing, dancing, preparing food, making handicrafts, reading the Koran, seemingly happy.  It’s a scene common across the archipelago, hardly worth a comment except for one tragic omission. No children.
Duncan Graham reports from Hong Kong on the sadness, suffering and resilience of the nation’s remittance heroines.
Dewi Karina (above) is attractive, cheerful and smart. The creative 33-year old makes beautiful flowers out of plastic and whatever materials she can find, and she teaches her skills to others at no cost.
Back in her home town of Surabaya live her two teenage children – and her former husband.
Divorce is one of many hazards faced by the Tenaga Kerja Indonesia [Indonesian work force - TKI] who labor overseas to get their families ahead - while their partners grow restless and sometimes roam.  TKIs don’t just suffer homesickness – they also risk family disintegration.
Another danger is exploitation and brutality.  Earlier this year Indonesian maid Erwiana Sulistyaningsih, 23, became internationally known for all the wrong reasons.
She alleged she’d been forced to work 21 hours a day and so badly beaten she was hospitalised on returning to East Java.  She carried just US $9 (Rp 100,000) in her wallet after working for nine months.  Her beautician boss was charged with assault and criminal intimidation; the matter is still before the courts.
The case shocked because Hong Kong is reputed to be the safest overseas posting for Indonesian domestics, with labor laws well enforced, unlike the Middle East.

Every Sunday the Indonesians gather in Victoria Park for their weekly bonding.  More than 100,000 are employed in the former British colony, now the Special Administrative Region of China, and most spend all day at the 19 hectare park.
Early arrivals, like Khumaidah, 33, bring rolls of plastic to cover the kerb under a footbridge, ready for her friends to sit.  She’s bareheaded and wears a scoop-neck pink T-shirt, but later ducks into the women’s toilet, emerging in an all-encompassing print dress and green jilbab, the right headgear for a Koranic reading.
“There’s no discrimination here,” she said.  “More and more women are wearing headscarves.” Badges proclaiming ‘I love Allah’ are common.
Dewi, 30, wanders by in black, collecting for Gaza Strip victims of the Palestine-Israel conflict.  Everyone contributes. The activist says it’s her way of expressing solidarity with fellow Muslims overseas.
In between sits Nyami Kaswadi, 47, (below)  who has lugged about 50 kilograms of books from her employer’s flat to set up her Pandu Pustaka suitcase library, an eclectic mix of pop fiction, literature and self-help books.
“I want to show the people of Hong Kong that we are not prostitutes,” she said forcefully.  “We are proud wives and mothers who have left our homes and families only because there’s no work in our homeland.

“We can spend our spare time sitting around and gossiping, or we can use the opportunity to learn.  I’m not upset if borrowers don’t return books.  That means they are being read.”
Nearby a tambourine band gets set to sing Islamic songs, while around the corner a small group is vigorously dancing to a raunchy Western tune.  The lyrics celebrate women’s role in society, asserting individuality and equality.
Their energetic leader Saniya is a member of Aliansi Migran Progresif, [AMP] a self-help organization that ensures workers’ rights are respected.
“If our members have problems with their bosses we act as go-betweens,” said AMP President Yuni.  “This can be a tough country, but the laws do protect foreign workers.
“Difficulties include adjusting to the lifestyle and language. Although English is widely used, caregivers need Cantonese to help the elderly.”
A few local men pass through and there’s cheerful banter. Some women have married Chinese and settled in Hong Kong.  There are whispers about lesbianism, and it’s clear there are several same-sex couples in the crowds, doing little to hide their affection.  It’s joyless being alone in a foreign land.
Bored Leisure and Cultural Services staff wander around hoping to snare a trader, for ‘hawking’ is prohibited. Fat chance.
The women outnumber the officials by several hundred to one, so who knows whether bungkus (take-away) plastic boxes of bakso (meat ball soup), nasi campur (rice and mixed vegetables and a dozen other delicacies are changing hands for cash or friendship.
A Dutch couple from Jakarta with a new-born stop to chat – politely declining requests to nurse the blond baby from women desperate to relive the joys of motherhood they’ve forsaken. Their expressions are heart-ripping. Being separate from their kids is like a gaol term.

Lia Samatron’s (left) perfect English and easy confidence with bureaucracy makes her the go-to for first-timers registering at the nearby Indonesian Embassy, conveniently close to shops selling the spices that gave the islands their first name.
“I used to run a travel agency from my home,” Lia said.  “When I’ve saved enough I’ll go back and re-open.
“There are so many opportunities for improvement.  One of the (Indonesian) banks here runs courses on small business management.  If you’re motivated you can learn much that will get you a better job.
“This education should be available in Indonesia.  We shouldn’t have to leave our homes and families.”
The basic wage is about HK $4,000 (Rp 6 million) plus food and accommodation, usually a tiny space in a cramped high rise.
 “Who’d want to be a maid in Indonesia?” Lia asked. “The money is bad and so is the treatment. Here we can earn enough to help our families, and get our children a good education.”
Wanti, 47, agreed. She’s putting her two daughters through Malang’s Brawijaya University and is determined they’ll not have to labor overseas. 
Across the spectacular harbor on Kowloon Peninsula Icha, 24, has taken on the local dress style of short shorts while showing her new friend Wati, 27, the sights.  These include a cruise liner that pours its contents of well-heeled overseas tourists into an already seething shopping mall.

“I like Hong Kong because I have freedom to do what I want and wear what I like,” said Icha, a four-year veteran.  “I can’t be myself in Indonesia.” 
Two Indonesian men approach and the couples are swallowed by the crowd.  No-one pays any attention:  Hong Kong is a city where you mind your own business and get on with life.

(First published in The Jakarta Post 31 August 2014)

Tuesday, August 19, 2014


The lady of the lamps     

They’re just a bit bigger and thicker than smart phones and have a weird name.  WakaWakas come in yellow and black and cost – well, that depends whether you’re rich or poor.
The children of Sukun in Malang are certainly in the latter category.  Their suburb, though well maintained, is cramped; public services, like electricity, are unreliable. It’s not the ideal place for kids to learn.
But now they’ll have no excuse for failing to do homework when the lights fail, thanks to a donation on 9 August of 200 WakaWakas by Dutch business manager Marie-Jose Nassette (below).
WakaWakas are the latest advances in small-scale sustainable technology and this is believed to be their first appearance in Indonesia.  They’re portable solar-powered units that can deliver more than 24 hours of light on one charge. Another model can also charge cellphones. They have been designed to replace kerosene as a fuel for lighting.
“I came across this invention by chance and field tested it while camping in Jordan in an area where batteries weren’t available,” Ms Nassette said.
“When I decided to visit a child my family has been sponsoring through the Dutch-Indonesia Suvono Foundation I planned to carry gifts.  The usual thing is pencils and notebooks for schoolwork, but then I noted my WakaWaka on the windowsill.
“Literally, I saw the light.”

She contacted the manufacturers, raised 5000 Euros [Rp 80 million] through friends and business associates linked to a Netherlands world trade center where she works and bought 200 WakaWakas to donate to the Sukun kids.
Although new to Indonesia there are more than 8,000 WakaWakas in the Philippines, about 26,000 in Syria and thousands more in camps where people have fled conflict and natural disasters.
The lights have a curious genesis starting in 2010 when the World Cup was played in South Africa.  The event was supposed to be carbon neutral but that ambition failed. So the government announced an international competition to develop a device that reduced carbon emissions.
Dutch environmental engineer Maurits Groen [his surname translates as ‘green’] decided to have a go.  He was inspired by learning that millions of South African children couldn’t study because there was no electricity and kerosene lighting was expensive.  It’s also dangerous.
One UN study claimed 300,000 people a year, mostly children, die from kerosene lamp fires while others are poisoned by drinking the fossil fuel; the polluting smoke is also a health hazard. Mr Groen’s own research claimed 1.5 billion people across the world still don’t have access to reliable electricity, dubbing the situation “energy poverty.”
“It’s no wonder that educational levels in Africa and Asia are very poor outside the big cities,” he was reported as saying.
But Mr Groen’s devices, which he called WakaWaka [meaning ‘shine bright’ in Swahili], were too expensive.  So he sold the carbon trading rights to the 2.8 million tonnes of emissions that his lamp would replace and with the money opened a factory in Holland.
Using crowd sourcing he also raised close to US $1 million [Rp 11.8 billion].  On-line investors were promised a WakaWaka for themselves and one for those too poor to pay.
Ms Nassette organized with Mr Groen to get the WakaWakas into Indonesia.  Although it was claimed all paper work had been completed correctly the devices were allegedly held up on the docks by Indonesian customs for a month until US$500 [Rp 5.9 million] was paid, even though they were to be donated.
Not all technologies migrate well.  For example, solar power widely used in Europe and Australasia has yet to become popular in Indonesia.
“I know about the problems caused by rich foreigners coming to countries like Indonesia, giving gifts, and then leaving,” she said. “Some lights may get sold, but I believe most will be used for the purpose intended.
“We’ll be monitoring what happens and reporting back to the WakaWaka Foundation to see how this project develops.
“I’m a strong supporter of sustainable living.  If every person just takes care of their one square meter then the world will be so much better.”
Kerosene use in Indonesia has tumbled, and is now less than a quarter of the consumption recorded in 2000 as the more efficient LPG gas has taken over for cooking. However kerosene is still used in remote areas for lighting.
Ms Nassette rejected suggestions that overseas aid was better handled by governments.
“That’s negative thinking,” she said.  “Governments aren’t always effective. We need to take responsibility ourselves. My fridge is full and I have a good life; but the purpose of having property is to share it with others.
“Every individual needs to set an example, not just talk about sustainability and inequality, but to get out and do something.  We can’t leave it to governments and behave like ostriches with our heads in the sand.
“I feel it’s my responsibility to try and leave the world a little better.”
Just keep it simple
There are only two moving parts on the WakaWaka – the stand which folds out, and the big button which turns it on. The battery is not accessible. The design is ideal for handicapped people.
Black solar cells cover the back.  For a full charge the device must stand in the sun for ten hours, or longer if overcast.  That will provide 20 hours of bright light, or 60 hours of medium light.
The retail price is around US $39 [Rp 450,000], while the device that includes a cellphone charger costs double. But in developing areas the price is closer to US $10 [Rp 118,000]
The inventor has also started a foundation encouraging rich companies to donate the WakaWakas to developing nations and in particular to areas hard hit by disasters. If a buyer pays more for a unit the company guarantees to donate one to a refugee camp.

(First published in The Jakarta Post 18 August 2014)


Tuesday, August 12, 2014


A Turtle called Democracy                                     

He’s huge as befits a sprawling archipelago of many parts – and like the nation’s political system is still a work in progress.
But by the time the new President is inaugurated on 20 October, Malang metal sculptor Ono Gaf’s monster Democracy Turtle should be close to completion.
“I don’t want to rush it,” he said.  “This is not an exercise in speed – every cog, wheel and gear, spring and sprocket has to tell me where it wants to go.
“I like turtles.  I kept them as a child so I know their characteristics. They move slowly but methodically. They’re strong and can take hard knocks.
“They are wise and quiet.  They are determined and they persevere.  They never bother people and are always going forward. 
“There’s a Javanese children’s story [much like Aesop’s Fable of the Hare and Tortoise] about a race between a kancil (mouse deer) and a kura-kura (turtle).  The faster animal loses because it’s arrogant and doesn’t take the contest seriously. These are all qualities I respect and for me they’re present in our new democracy.”
Ono pedals a bike around scrap dealers and workshops where old vehicles – mainly busses – are broken up for spare parts.  He selects what appeals, already knowing where they’ll fit, and hauls them in sacks to the construction site using public transport.
“Some passengers think I’m a gombel (scavenger),” he said. “But it would cost a lot to have truck loads delivered.  They’re my treasury.”
The three-tonne monster is being constructed for a retired doctor who is also an artist, though specialising in small and delicate plant arrangements.  He owns a restaurant in the hill town of Batu outside Malang in East Java, though Democracy Turtle is hidden from street view at the back of the property.
Ono said the doctor, who shied publicity, had been unable to buy the self-taught artist’s sculptures at exhibitions so had decided to commission for an undisclosed sum.  Work started in May and Ono lives on site during weekdays.
Some restaurant staff help with spot-welding at Ono’s direction.
There are scores of other sculptures by Ono at gated upscale housing communities and outdoor theme centers in East Java.  The Eco-Green Park in Batu displays his scrap metal birds alongside the feathered varieties.
Democracy Turtle has attracted widespread interest, with bus loads of international tourists and tertiary students coming to watch the three-meter high terrapin grow. Visitors who reckon they’re mechanically smart try to identify the parts – others are overawed by its complexity.
“I’m 66 and I want this sculpture to be my masterpiece,” Ono said. “This isn’t just about welding metal – for me it’s spiritual.  That’s why it’s taking time to get established, just like our democracy.”

(First published in The Jakarta Post 12 August 2014)

Sunday, August 10, 2014


By the way: A fable for our times
Once upon a time in an amazing archipelago called Insulindia there dwelt a great people, rich in reason and resources.
 “Verily, we are the most fortunate of folk,” they cried. “We can cast a net into the ocean and catch fine fish. The wild fruits of our soil are sufficient unto the day.  We are free to determine our future though the snakes of ego and avarice slither amongst us.”
Now in those days Insulindia was ruled by a regent who’d sat on the throne for ten twelvemonths and was getting a mite constipated. There were mutterings in the marketplace, and many voiced anxieties, for the ancient one’s heirs lacked courage to grasp the reins of office.
So the King gathered the challengers and spoke thus:
“Oh ye ambitious men, harken to my words. Those who would seek to rule this mighty nation must first win the hand of my fair daughter, Demo Cracy.”
Some suitors were aghast.  “But, Lord,” cried one of noble birth, rolling off his froth-flecked stallion. “Demo is comely only in the eyes of the blighted.  You adopted her.  She is not from the loins of our land but a thieving foreigner.  She’s responsible for the leaks, the reason we do not prosper.
“Better by far to embrace the true ways of our ancestors and follow Demo’s half-brother, Mono Cracy as befits our tradition.  For many in this tropical fiefdom are not so learned as us, or of sound mind as to make correct decisions. 
“I am but a simple goat farmer so I know well the simple goats. They need guidance from one raised for greatness, for such was foretold at my Mamma’s breast.”
“Nary, good Sir,” interrupted his most potent rival, a low-born hewer of wood and wanderer of the warungs.  “I will rise to the challenge thrown down by our lacklustre leader and woo yon maiden Demo; forsooth, methinks she is beloved of the masses.  Prithee, Lord, your orders.”
“So be it,” said the King.  “Hence to the smoking mountains and flood-ripped valleys, to the humblest hamlets and the silver cities.
“Tell all who will listen of your plans, and on the day appointed I will ask them to choose.”
“They will be told,” snarled the plump knight of the dark countenance as he mounted his charger with the help of three stout groomsmen. “Summons my little brother to fill the saddlebags with gold to reward the true believers.
“Also call upon scribes to rewrite my biography.  The commoners must not be confused by the lies of those who might recall past misdeeds, though of course these never happened.”
And so the Eurocopter ascended to the heavens above the clenched-fist cheers of redcaps spontaneously shouting “Il Duce, Il Duce,” for they had learned the word from history books. But others trembled.
Meanwhile his rival looked around for a passing pedicab, for his palace-born sponsor had commandeered all flying machines. She knew the people craved to see her princess daughter, not some lean and hungry pretender with no lineage, a frog from a riverbank.
And so it came to pass on the appointed day the electors gathered and spake with clear voice.  The winner consummated the union with Demo, but the loser withdrew to spill his wrath.
“Oh ye dolts and dimwits,” he shouted at the multitude. “I said to stick the nail through the paper once – not twice just to make sure.  Why do you think I paid you?
“I also curse the blind referee.  We told him many dead and disappeared had voted twice – we have their names. But he wouldn’t listen
“We’ll get this fixed at the high place with a fine record of impartial judgments. We have shipping containers – well, folders actually - bulging with your righteous complaints.  These must be upheld – or we’ll cry havoc.
“Fear not, proud yeomen of Insulindia.  I will not allow my, I mean your destiny to be stolen by a wardrobe salesman into heavy metal, not heavy armaments.  A warrior never accepts defeat, even when riddled by eight million votes.”
Now children, time for bed. No nightmares darlings, it’s just an old fairy tale. Duncan Graham

(First published in The Jakarta Post, Sunday 10 August 2014)