A P r ay e r f o r My Dau gh t e r M y r a A i s h a h b i n t i M i k a i l T a n
Back then, Ida dreamed like she lived: the silk of her favourite dress like water through her fingers, the smell of Nek Ya’s asam pedas on the stove, the sound of the radio splintering across the room; wild music, all kicked-up feet and ephemeral joy. Here is what Ida dreams of now, in 2032: her daughter. She has only tattered sense memories — no smells filter through their oxygen masks, no touch through their mandatory hazmat suits. Ida dreams in slow motion, Ida dreams like a ghost: watching, intangible, as the world spins itself past her, hair streaming out just out of reach. “I think I am losing my daughter,” she says out loud. MYKerja replies: The nearest hospital is 2.2km away, 5 minutes with minimal traffic. What extreme symptoms are your daughter experiencing, and will this interfere with work? “I didn’t mean — I’m taking leave today,” Ida says, flustered. “Monthly hospital check.” She’s still not used to MYKerja, newly implemented by the government to better facilitate working from home. MYKerja says she can call it MIKKA, her Friendly AI Work Colleague, but Ida is too wary of it — she is afraid she will
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