By Ali Syarief
As I stood before the gathered guests at my nephew’s wedding, I found myself uttering a simple yet heartfelt expression of gratitude: “Let us be thankful to God, for tonight, the rain has not fallen.” It was a beautiful evening, the open-air reception set against the backdrop of a vast and enchanting garden. Yet, beneath this expression of relief lay an unspoken reality—one that reflects our cultural disposition as Indonesians.
In our homeland, we often take the weather as an unpredictable force, an element of fate that we merely accept rather than anticipate. Few among us take the time to check weather forecasts before planning an outdoor event. We embrace the elements as they come, sometimes with frustration, sometimes with humor, but rarely with preparation. Perhaps this is due to Indonesia’s tropical climate, where the seasons are relatively stable, with only variations between the rainy and dry periods.
This perspective changed for me during my years as a student in Hiroshima. There, checking the weather forecast became as natural as brushing my teeth before bed. Each night, I would tune into television updates or glance at my phone, eager to know what the next day would bring. Would I need a heavier coat? Would the roads be slick with rain? Should I carry an umbrella? Should I wear boots instead of regular shoes? Weather was not merely an afterthought—it was an integral part of daily decision-making.
Beyond personal convenience, the Japanese people have cultivated a profound relationship with meteorology. Farmers, for instance, do not merely glance at the skies; they study forecasts with meticulous care, aligning their planting cycles with the rhythms of nature. Their livelihood depends not only on hard work but also on their ability to predict and adapt.
Even seasonal traditions hinge upon precise meteorological expectations. I remember participating in a snow camp in Iiyama City, an event meticulously planned based on long-term weather forecasts. The presence of sufficient snow was not left to chance; the timing was calculated so that the winter’s remnants would still blanket the mountains, preserving the very essence of the experience. This level of preparation is partly due to Japan’s four distinct seasons, where each brings its own challenges and opportunities, requiring a heightened awareness of climatic conditions.
This attention to weather is not merely a testament to scientific advancement; it is a cultural mindset—a way of engaging with the world that blends knowledge, adaptability, and respect for nature’s patterns. It is a lesson that I have carried with me, one that I often wish to see embraced more widely in my own country.
That night, at my nephew’s wedding, we were fortunate. The skies remained clear, the air cool, and the celebration undisturbed. But as I stood there, I could not help but wonder: what if we had prepared for rain? What if, instead of hoping for the best, we had anticipated nature’s course? Would our gratitude have been any less profound? Or would it have been deepened by the wisdom of readiness?
Perhaps, in learning to read the skies as carefully as we read the words of fate, we may find a harmony between acceptance and preparedness—a balance between faith and foresight.
