Yafqahu Qauli

Note: This article is the personal opinion of the writer and does not reflect the views of the CNBC Indonesia editorial team.

Introduction to the series ‘The Death of Economics’: In the midst of a world that keeps moving quickly yet feels increasingly hollow, we invite you to pause for a moment, to look back, to look within, and to look ahead.

The ‘Death of Economics’ series is not merely a collection of critiques. It is an honest effort to view economics from a rarely illuminated angle: from the side that is not always efficient, not always rational, but entirely human.

Here, we wish to refresh our memory of why economics exists, not only as a calculating tool, but as a mirror of the joys, achievements, sufferings, inequalities and hopes of an era. This twenty-first episode we have titled ‘Yafqahu Qauli’. May it be of use. Enjoy.

Morning in Sleman, Special Region of Yogyakarta, always arrives without hurry. A thin mist still hangs on the slopes of Mount Merapi as an old man sweeps the mango leaves that fell overnight in his front yard. The house is simple, its walls not high, the yard filled with sapodilla trees, jasmine and several orchid pots beginning to flower. In a corner of the terrace, an old rattan chair faces the rice fields that are slowly turning into housing estates.

No one passing that morning would have suspected that the man holding the broom was once among the most careful choosers of words in this country. He is now retired; it has been nearly eight years since he left the central bank building.

There are no more meeting rooms full of inflation charts. No more press conferences broadcast live on television and awaited by investors. No more late-night telephone calls from ministers, the president, or market players waiting for the next day’s decision. All that remains is a simple routine: sweeping the yard, brewing tea, watering the flowers, and enjoying mornings he once almost never had time to experience.

That morning, a car stops in front of the house, and a young man steps out carrying a rucksack that seems far too heavy for a weekend holiday. ‘Grandfather’s grandson is home,’ the old man murmurs with a smile. The young man kisses his grandfather’s hand, then enters the house without much conversation. Before long, he is seated at the dining table with his laptop open, macroeconomics books scattered about, and a visibly frustrated face.

The old man watches from a distance. ‘On holiday, yet sulking.’ The young man sighs deeply. ‘It’s not a holiday, Grandpa. It’s an assignment.’

‘What assignment? Macroeconomics, how tedious.’ The old man laughs softly. ‘In my day, I also studied macroeconomics, but back then there weren’t this many readings.’ The young man turns his laptop screen towards his grandfather.

‘Here, Grandpa, I’ve been told to read central bank statements.’ The old man sips his tea without saying anything. Then the young man, with an exasperated tone, says, ‘I really don’t understand.’

‘What don’t you understand? Why does the central bank always talk like this?’ He points at the laptop screen. ‘The sentences are long, winding, convoluted. Why not just write it plainly? If they want to raise interest rates, just say they want to raise interest rates. If the economy is struggling, just say it’s struggling.’

‘If the rupiah is under pressure, just say it’s under pressure. Why must they use sentences that feel… unfinished?’

The old man does not answer immediately. He simply picks up the teapot, pours warm tea into his grandson’s cup, then sits down slowly in front of him. It has been years since anyone asked him about the central bank. He gazes at the small garden in the front yard for a long while before finally saying softly:

‘Because, my boy, a central banker never speaks to just one person.’ The young man frowns. ‘What do you mean?’

The old man smiles. ‘Today, we won’t study macroeconomics. We will study why one and the same sentence can be heard with eight different meanings.’ And for the first time since retiring, the old man reopens a lesson never taught in any lecture hall: a lesson on the weight of carrying words.

Eight People Hear One Sentence

The old man takes a blank sheet of paper from the desk drawer. In handwriting still neat, he writes one short sentence: the central bank raises interest rates by 25 basis points. Then he pushes the paper towards his grandson. ‘In your view, what does this sentence mean?’

His grandson answers quickly. ‘Well… it means interest rates go up.’ The old man shakes his head slowly. ‘That is a student’s answer.’

‘Then what is a central banker’s answer? That sentence never only means interest rates go up.’ His grandson looks confused. The old man points again at the sentence he has just written. ‘Say this is announced tomorrow morning. Who hears it first?’

‘Well… everyone, Grandpa?’ The grandfather replies, ‘No.’ ‘The first to hear it is not “everyone”. The first to hear it is each person’s own interest.’ He pauses, then begins to count.

‘A pensioner living off deposit interest will smile, because his income may increase.’

‘But a father who has just applied for a home loan will return home with a gloomy face, because his instalments could become heavier.’

‘A businessman planning to build a factory next week starts reopening his investment calculations: is this project still viable?’

‘In an office in Jakarta, an investment manager stares at his screen with slightly relieved eyes. He manages the pension funds of thousands of primary school teachers; for the past three years, rates that were too low forced him to take on more risk than he should have. That morning, for the first time in a long while, the numbers begin to speak more favourably. He does not cheer; he merely exhales. Because behind those numbers are elderly teachers who await their pension money every month.’

‘Meanwhile, in another building, the Minister of Finance summons his staff. If rates rise, how much additional cost will the state’s debt bear next year? Because every fraction of a percentage point means billions, even trillions of rupiah.’

‘In a house in Surabaya, a mother opens her savings book. For three years she has set aside money every month for her daughter’s wedding; that morning she recalculates. With rates rising, the figure is slightly closer to what she dreamed of. She does not know what a basis point is. She only knows that her dream for her daughter feels a little closer today.’

He raises his finger again. ‘In Singapore, Hong Kong, London, foreign fund managers begin comparing Indonesia with India, Brazil, Mexico, even America. Not because they love Indonesia, but because they must choose where their investors’ money will be placed.’

His grandson begins to pay closer attention as the old man continues. ‘In a bank’s dealing room, dealers immediately watch their screens; in brokerages, analysts revise their projections; in the stock market, investors begin recalculating corporate valuations; and in the bond market, prices move even before the press conference ends.’

He smiles faintly. ‘Then, far from all those buildings, there is a meatball vendor.’ His grandson frowns. ‘A meatball vendor?’ ‘Yes. Perhaps he doesn’t know what a basis point is. Perhaps he has never read a central bank statement. But a few months later, he begins asking why the interest on his cart loan has changed, and why his customers are becoming more frugal and the price of raw materials is shifting.’

‘Without ever knowing that it all began with one sentence.’ The old man points again at the paper on the table. ‘My boy, this sentence never travels alone.’

‘It carries hope for some, and anxiety for others. It gives breath to one group, and makes another group hold its breath.’ His grandson falls silent. For the first time, he sees a central bank announcement not as a boring paragraph, but as something alive. The old man folds the paper again.

‘So now you know why we cannot choose words carelessly.’ Because when a lecturer speaks, he is teaching his students. ‘But when a central bank governor speaks, he is speaking to an entire nation.’ He looks at his grandson with a thin smile. ‘And a nation almost never listens with the same ears.’

His grandson still stares at the folded paper on the table. After a moment, he lifts his face. ‘In that case, why didn’t you just choose the most truthful sentence?’

The old man smiles; it reminds him of himself decades ago, freshly graduated from the faculty of economics. He too once believed that truth was always best stated plainly. ‘In your view,’ he says softly, ‘what is the task of a central banker?’

‘Keeping inflation in check, safeguarding the exchange rate, setting interest rates.’ The answer rolls out effortlessly, like a newly memorised textbook. The old man nods. ‘All correct, but incomplete.’

He rises and walks to the bookshelf. He takes not an economics book, but an old photo album. Inside are photographs beginning to yellow: photos of his student days, of his first days at the central bank, of international conferences now almost forgotten. He points at one of them.

‘I once thought my job was to make decisions. Then, some years later, I realised my job was to make decisions that are understood correctly.’ He closes the album slowly.

‘My boy, a good decision can fail simply because it is communicated in the wrong way.’ ‘Conversely, a difficult decision can be accepted if the public understands why it had to be taken.’

His grandson interjects, ‘But doesn’t the public have the right to hear the true state of affairs?’

‘Correct. So why not just state it plainly?’ The old man smiles thinly. ‘Because “as it is” does not always mean “as it is heard”.’ Seeing his grandson still puzzled, he continues.

‘Imagine a doctor who knows his patient’s test results. Will he simply say, “Sir, you are gravely ill,” and stop there?’ A good doctor does not only name the patient’s illness. He also explains how the patient should understand it. It is the same with the central bank. We are not hiding the truth; we are helping the public to understand it.’

The old man sits down again. ‘In my life, I have learned that there are three kinds of sentences.’ His grandson opens his notebook.

‘First: sentences that are true. Second: sentences that sound true. And third: sentences that produce rightful outcomes.’ He gazes intently at his grandson.

‘An academic may stop at the first. A politician is often tempted to use the second. A central banker must seek the third.’

His grandson closes his notebook. For the first time, he feels he is learning something never taught in any lecture hall. He came to Sleman to understand monetary policy, and without realising it, his grandfather is teaching him a greater wisdom.

The old man picks up his teacup, now growing cold. Then he says quietly, as if speaking to himself: ‘The higher one’s position, the more expensive every sentence becomes.’

His grandson leans back in his chair. ‘If I may be honest, Grandpa, I still don’t like it. I don’t like roundabout language. In my view, public officials should speak plainly.’

The old man smiles. ‘You are right.’ His grandson looks surprised. ‘You agree?’ ‘Of course,’ the grandfather replies. ‘Honesty is the first requirement, but not the last.’ The old man takes the small knife he used earlier to peel a mango and places it on the table.

‘Look at this knife.’ His grandson raises an eyebrow. ‘If the knife is too blunt?’ ‘Well, it can’t cut.’ The old man nods. ‘And if it’s too sharp?’ His grandson laughs. ‘Well, that’s even better.’

The old man smiles. ‘Not necessarily.’ He picks up a wooden chopping board covered in scars. ‘If the knife is too sharp, the chopping board gets eaten away too.’ His grandson looks at the board, still not catching his meaning.

‘What do you mean, Grandpa?’ The old man strokes the surface of the wood, now growing concave. ‘A knife is made to cut, but not to wound the place where it works.’ He looks at his grandson. ‘It is the same with the tongue: honesty must cut through problems, not slice the hearts of those who must still walk alongside us.’

‘So it must be hidden?’ ‘No,’ the grandfather answers. ‘The mango, and the fruit, must still be cut. But when you’re finished, you still want to have a chopping board that is intact.’ Honesty answers what is true. Wisdom determines how that truth is delivered.’

He gazes out towards the rice fields. ‘Once, when I was still in Jakarta, I changed just one word in a press conference script.’

‘One word, just one.’ What difference did it make? ‘The next morning, the value of this nation’s currency moved.’ His grandson falls silent. ‘Not because the policy changed, but because people’s interpretation of that one word changed.’

The old man picks up a small twig that has fallen on the terrace. With its tip, he draws a circle on the floor. ‘On campus, you learn that language is used to explain thought.’

He draws a second circle. ‘At the central bank, I learned that language also shapes thought.’ He connects the two circles with a single line. ‘People often think the central bank controls interest rates.’ He shakes his head slowly. ‘No.’ ‘What we manage most often is hope.’

‘Hope?’ Yes: the hope of a mother that rice remains affordable. The hope of an entrepreneur that his business is still worth expanding. The hope of an investor that this country can still be trusted. The hope of a labourer that his job still exists. The hope of the government that growth is maintained. And the hope of the market that we know what we are doing.’

He pauses for a moment. ‘All of them live on hope, and hope often changes merely because of a sentence.’ The breeze blows gently once more.

‘My boy, do you know why Javanese people are often said to speak in lofty, allusive language?’ His grandson shakes his head. ‘Not because we fear telling the truth, nor because we wish to confuse people.’

‘We are simply taught one thing from childhood.’ He picks up a sandal lying by the door. ‘A good tongue is not the sharpest one. A good tongue is one capable of guarding the heart, without betraying the truth.’ He turns to his grandson. ‘After thirty years as a central banker, I have only just realised: the work was far more Javanese than I ever imagined. Ajining diri dumunung ana ing lathi — one’s worth resides in one’s speech.’

‘Did you ever misspeak, Grandpa?’ The question leaves the old man silent for a long while. He does not answer at once; his gaze falls instead on his teacup, half full. Its surface is calm, yet it sways now and then in the breeze from the yard.

‘I have miscalculated or misjudged before. But what most often keeps me awake at night is not the numbers. Only the words.’

‘Only the words?’ his grandson asks, astonished. The old man smiles. He stands, walks to the bookshelf, and takes out a battered folder. Inside there are no inflation reports. No exchange rate charts — only several sheets of speeches covered in red ink marks: sentences crossed out, words replaced, paragraphs moved, even punctuation changed.

‘Are these press conference scripts?’ The old man nods. ‘We could debate a sentence like this for hours.’ His grandson looks incredulous. ‘Over just one word?’ ‘Yes. Over just one word.’

He opens one of the pages. ‘For instance, if I say the central bank is optimistic about the economic recovery, that sounds good. But some people might hear that the central bank will soon cut rates.’