Syarifudin brutu

Syarifudin Brutu, akrab disapa Syarif, merupakan mahasiswa Pendidikan Bahasa dan Sastra Indonesia dari Universitas Syiah Kuala. Saat ini ia menetap di Banda Aceh dan aktif membagikan karya serta pemikirannya melalui akun Instagram @aksara_arunika. Untuk kepentingan korespondensi, ia dapat disapa melalui WhatsApp di 085763055727 atau email Syarifbrutu1@gmail.com.

Latest posts from Aksaraarunika

• Simulasi Negara Maju di Warung Kopi

  Feb 03

  Pak Kades baru saja pulang dari studi banding di luar negeri dengan semangat membara. "Kita harus modern!" serunya sambil menggebrak meja kayu warung Mpok Minah yang sudah reyot. ​"Lihat ini," Pak Kades memamerkan tablet terbaru. "Pemerintah bilang kita sudah masuk jajaran negara maju. Ekonomi meroket, angka statistik melambung tinggi, dan investasi masuk triliunan!" ​Mpok Minah yang sedang menuangkan kopi saset harga seribuan hanya bengong. "Maju gimana, Pak? Itu harga beras di pasar sudah kayak harga saham Apple, naik terus nggak mau turun. Bedanya, kalau saham bikin kaya, kalau beras bikin saya puasa Senin-Kamis tanpa niat ibadah." ​"Ah, kamu mah pesimis, Minah," potong Pak Kades sambil membetulkan kacamatanya. "Secara makro, daya beli kita itu stabil. Lihat itu di Jakarta, gedung-gedung tinggi, mobil listrik di mana-mana. Itu tandanya rakyat makmur!" ​Dul, seorang pengangguran intelektual yang sedang mencari Wi-Fi gratis, menyahut, "Pak, gedung tinggi itu kan isinya kantor. Masalahnya, kami yang di bawah ini cuma kebagian bayangannya doang. Ademnya dapet, duitnya kagak. Bapak bilang negara maju, tapi mau berobat aja saya harus kumpulin fotokopi KTP sampai setinggi Monas." ​"Betul itu!" timpal Pak RT yang baru datang. "Negara maju itu katanya serba digital. Sekarang bikin KTP digital, bayar pajak digital, semua aplikasi. Tapi pas saya mau beli minyak goreng murah, kok masih disuruh antre pakai kupon kertas yang lecek? Mana digitalnya? Itu mah 'Digit-all'—artinya duit kita didigit-digit sampai ludes." ​Pak Kades terdiam sebentar, lalu tersenyum bijak. "Ya itu namanya proses transisi. Kita harus bangga, kita sudah sejajar dengan negara besar. Kita punya kereta cepat!" ​"Kereta cepat emang bagus, Pak," balas Dul kalem. "Tapi masalahnya, kecepatan kereta itu nggak sebanding sama kecepatan hilangnya saldo di rekening saya setiap tanggal muda. Negara maju itu harusnya rakyatnya nggak pusing besok makan apa, bukan pusing besok liat pengumuman pajak apa lagi yang naik." ​Mpok Minah menyodorkan segelas kopi hitam ke Pak Kades. "Ini kopinya, Pak. Lima ribu rupiah." ​Pak Kades meraba kantongnya. "Waduh, dompet saya ketinggalan di mobil dinas. Boleh scan QRIS nggak?" ​Mpok Minah menunjuk sebuah kertas di tembok: "TIDAK MENERIMA QRIS, LAGI GANGGUAN SINYAL. KHUSUS TUNAI ATAU GADAI KTP." ​"Nah," kata Mpok Minah sambil nyengir. "Selamat datang di negara maju, Pak. Maju kena, mundur kena, diam pun kena pajak." ​Pak Kades akhirnya pulang dengan perut kembung kopi, menyadari bahwa statistik di tabletnya memang terlihat cantik, tapi sayangnya tidak bisa dimakan pakai sambal terasi.

  

• The Unemployed Demon

  Feb 01

  In a dilapidated corner of Jakarta, a place so forsaken it had slipped through the digital fingers of Google Maps, sat an alehouse named "The Vale of Lamentation." Its patrons were not men, but a congregation of astral entities looking more haggard than the beggars beneath the city’s overpasses. The air was thick with the stench of cheap, bootleg moonshine and the lazy, curling smoke of clove cigarettes. ​"I was laid off yesterday," a withered Genderuwo lamented, his gaze hollow as he stared into a plastic cup. "My sacred duty was to haunt the banyan trees, to strike a divine fear into the hearts of villagers so they wouldn’t raze the forests. But then came the contractors with their iron beasts. They felled my home and offered me a job as a night watchman—at a wage below the legal minimum. They do not fear my wrath; they only fear the revocation of their mining permits." ​Ucok, a fledgling demon fresh from the Inferno Career Center, listened with a shrinking heart. He was a creature of the Gen Z vintage: ambitious, armed with a certificate in "Fundamental Psychological Manipulation," and adept at whispering in low-frequency vibrations. ​"Is the industry truly in such decay, Brother?" Ucok asked, his voice laced with naivety. ​"Decay?" A swine-headed fiend barked from the shadows, his laughter a gravelly rasp. "Cok, in this realm, humanity has completed a hostile takeover of our entire business model. You wish to be a Demon of Corruption? The bureaucrats have templates far more sophisticated than our whispers. A Demon of Lust? They’ve built digital altars for that, complete with five-star ratings. We are but fossils, forced to remain relevant in a world far more hellish than the pit itself." ​Ucok stood, straightening his blood-red tie. "I refuse to believe it. I have an impeccable CV. I shall seek my fortune in the city." ​The following dawn, Ucok stood before a glass monolith in the Sudirman district—a cathedral of power where gavels struck to seal the fates of millions. He entered the human resources department of a multinational firm whispered to be a laundry for shadows. With practiced poise, he slid his leather portfolio across a translucent desk. ​"I am applying for the position of Ethical Temptation Specialist," Ucok declared. ​The HR Manager, a woman behind bespoke spectacles with a gaze like fractured ice, spared his CV a mere three seconds. "Mr. Ucok, we already have Legal and Public Relations departments. Their task is to transfigure environmental atrocities into 'Green Energy' campaigns. We have no need for a demon to whisper sin. We require humans who can rebrand evil as 'economic progress'." ​"But I can ensure your Director feels no remorse for slashing the wages of the poor!" Ucok interjected. ​The manager’s laughter was sharper than a razor’s edge. "Our Director does not need you. He attends mindfulness retreats and meditates every weekend. He finds profound serenity in terminating a thousand souls, for he believes it to be the 'will of the market.' You are too classical, Mr. Ucok. You are analog; we have gone digital." ​Ucok was unceremoniously evicted by a security guard who bore—quite ironically—a crucifix on one arm and a dragon on the other; a paradox of faith common in this land. ​Descending from the concrete heights, Ucok was swallowed by the city’s viscera. He wandered into narrow alleys where the sun was a luxury and neon lights flickered like dying hearts. He tried to ply his trade upon a young man clutching a crumpled banknote, waiting for a fleeting moment of hollow pleasure in a wooden shack. ​"Surrender... embrace the rot of this sin..." Ucok whispered, employing the deadliest techniques of his schooling. ​The youth did not flinch. He turned to Ucok—who was cloaked in the guise of a wretch—and sighed. "Sin? Do not preach to me of sin, stranger. I toil sixteen hours a day to pay for a motorcycle the bank is clawing back. My wife is sick in the province. I am here only to feel 'human' for fifteen minutes before I become a machine again tomorrow. If God exists, He knows I only seek a cheap reprieve." ​Ucok fell silent. His whispers shattered against the wall of reality. How can one tempt a soul with Hell when their existence is already a living perdition? In these shadows, morality had long since dissolved in the black bile of the sewers. ​By midnight, the despair was absolute. Ucok found himself at a dusty carnival on the city's fringe. A skeletal man with a clouded eye stood before a derelict attraction: THE HOUSE OF HORRORS. ​"Sir, I seek employment. I am a true demon. I require no costume; I can shatter hearts with a glance," Ucok pleaded. ​The proprietor looked at him with pity. "Cok, the people here no longer fear ghosts. They come here to forget their fear of the price of rice and the brutality of the law. If you want the bread, wear this clown suit. Stand by the gate, dance, and beckon them in." ​"But I am a creature of the Pit! My dignity—" ​"Dignity cannot buy grain, Cok. In this land, to survive is to be a jester. Look at the elites on the television—they are clowns in silk; you shall be a clown in rags." Ucok surrendered. He donned the garish, faded suit and painted a wide, manic grin over a face of profound sorrow. All night, he danced under the flickering bulbs as the corrupt and the desperate alike entered his "House of Setans," laughing at plastic monsters, unknowingly mocking their own reflection. ​When the carnival dimmed and the silence of the smog crept in, Ucok sat upon a heap of tangled cables. He removed his mask. Tears of black ichor stained his cheeks. He took a scrap of parchment and penned his final resignation. To His Excellency, Lucifer, ​Sire, I resign. I cannot compete in this jurisdiction. Humanity has achieved a terrifying autonomy in their depravity. They steal without shame, kill without guilt, and deceive in the name of the Divine. Please, recall me to the Abyss. There, at least, the torment follows the rule of law. I would rather be kindling in the deepest pit than a jester in a world that has out-deviled the Devil. Ucok ignited the letter. The smoke rose into a sky choked by industrial haze. In the distance, a massive billboard loomed, featuring a grinning candidate with the slogan: "FOR THE INTERESTS OF THE PEOPLE." ​Ucok laughed until he choked. It was the most demonic joke he had ever witnessed.