During my stay, a friend invited me to dinner at an Italian restaurant. She was the principal of a high school in Fayetteville, North Carolina. She came with two colleagues, whom I later learned were the vice principals. Three Indonesian friends accompanied me.
When we arrived at the restaurant, the waitresses greeted us warmly and showed us to table number four. They handed us the menus.
The names of the dishes were, of course, in Italian.
I knew absolutely no Italian.
So I called a waitress and asked her to explain what each dish was. In the end, I ordered seafood—something I considered safe and familiar.
My Indonesian friend sitting beside me leaned over and whispered, “Just choose something from the menu. Don’t ask too many questions. You’ll look like a hick.”
“So let them think I’m a hick,” I whispered back. “That’s better than getting into trouble with my food.”
He looked at me.
“Look around. No one else is asking about the menu. You’re the only one.”
I smiled and glanced at the others. Apparently, no one seemed to think there was anything unusual about what I was doing.
Or at least, that was what I told myself.
While we waited for our food, the conversation moved from education to culture and then to many other things. About fifteen minutes later, our orders arrived.
As I had hoped, my plate was filled with familiar things: shrimps, squids, and mussels. The aroma rose gently from the plate.
It smelled delicious.
Hmm... yummy.
I looked at my friend’s plate. On it was something that looked remarkably like pieces of meat arranged in a circle.
He leaned toward me.
“Looks great, doesn’t it?” he whispered. “Not like yours. Shrimps again? Too ordinary!”
We began eating.
Then, just as I put a mouthful into my mouth, he suddenly stepped hard on my foot.
“Goddamned!” he exclaimed.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
He pointed at his plate.
“It’s not meat.”
He paused.
“It’s eggplant!”
I could hardly keep myself from laughing.
The incident reminded me of a familiar Indonesian proverb: Malu Bertanya Sesat di Jalan—roughly, “If you are too embarrassed to ask, you may lose your way.” The Latin version says it beautifully and simply: Qui rogat, non errat—“He who asks does not err.”
How often are we reluctant to ask a question simply because we are afraid of looking foolish?
Sometimes we remain silent because we do not want other people to think we are ignorant. Sometimes we are too proud to admit that we do not understand. And sometimes we assume that we already know, only to discover later that we were wrong.
But which is more difficult: answering or asking?
For me, asking is harder.
Suppose you are sitting in an examination room and come across a question whose answer you do not know. You can simply write, “I don’t know,” or leave it unanswered. That may be better than disturbing your friends for an answer.
And what if your younger brother, younger sister, or a junior asks you something you do not know?
You can simply say, “I don’t know, but I know how to find the answer.”
There is nothing wrong with that.
In fact, there is something honest—and even admirable—about admitting that we do not know.
The problem is that we often think we must have an answer for everything. We may give an answer whether it is right or wrong, whether it satisfies the person asking or not. But being able to answer is not necessarily a sign of wisdom.
Not everyone can ask.
That is why learning how to ask matters.
Asking is a skill. It has to be practiced, sharpened, and cultivated, especially by learners. Sometimes a person’s intellectual growth can be seen not from the number of answers they give, but from the quality of the questions they ask.
A person who rarely asks may also stop himself from discovering what lies beyond what he already knows. Even questions that remain unspoken in the mind can be valuable, because they push us to think, to search, and to understand.
Unfortunately, in some places, asking questions is still regarded as a sign of weakness or even shame. A student who asks too many questions may be considered troublesome, arrogant, or pretentious by his friends.
What a strange habit.
We tell students to learn, yet sometimes we make them afraid to ask.
Perhaps we need to teach them something more fundamental than how to find answers.
We need to teach them that there is no shame in saying:
“I don’t know.”
And there is certainly no shame in asking:
“Why?”
“How?”
“Could you explain that again?”
Because sometimes the first step toward knowledge is not an answer.
It is a question.
Qui rogat, non errat.
He who asks does not err.
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