3 Lessons from Gamelan on How We Talk About Health: Reflections from My Book Launch

Her eyes held the kind of awe reserved for hidden wonders. She was one of the first to arrive, while others slowly trickled in, filling the space of what used to be a music library.

“Yes, there’s a Javanese gamelan and a Balinese gamelan class every semester actually.” I smiled, proud to play a nano role as the unofficial publicist for Ki Midiyanto, a master of Javanese gamelan who has taught generations of musicians.

When I started thinking about the launch of Debunk with Empathy, I knew one thing for sure. I didn’t want it to be just another book event with a podium, a reading, and polite applause. That wasn’t me. That wasn’t this book. I wanted it to be something people could feel, even if, later on, all they had were photos from that day.

And so, the night unfolded in the way that felt most natural. It became an intersection of the things I hold closest to my heart: community, cultural music, and meaningful conversations. At the heart of it all was...gamelan.

Gamelan is more than just music. It is an art of listening, adjusting, and creating in unison. In many ways, it reflects the communal societies in what I call in my research the Nusantara sociocultural sphere, a Southeast Asian region spanning multiple countries that share the same roots, linguistically, historically, and culturally.

But I first began to see this over a decade ago, after graduating from Yale, when I traveled to Yogjakarta on Indonesia's Java Island. At the time, I had been playing in the Ivy League's Javanese gamelan ensemble, but I wanted to experience this form of art in its natural setting.

So there I was, standing in the royal court of Yogyakarta, just hours before my flight home, watching a gamelan performance. I expected the familiar metallic resonance of the instruments, but what struck me most was everything else: the birds chirping between notes, the rustling of leaves, the quiet murmur of people moving in and out.

The music wasn’t separate. It belonged to the world around it. And this very moment reminded me that just as gamelan is shaped by its surroundings, so are our conversations.

Like gamelan, every dialogue carries a climate shaped by culture, emotion, and the unspoken. The music wasn’t just in the instruments, but in the way it interacted with everything around it. Just like gamelan, every health conversation exists within a unique climate, one shaped by history, culture, emotions, and personal experiences.

In Debunk with Empathy, I introduce the concept of hati. In Bahasa Melayu and Bahasa Indonesia, two languages spoken by over 290 million people in the Nusantara region, hati literally means “liver.” While often mistaken as the equivalent of “heart” in English, hati is deeper than that. Hati is the seat of emotions and intellect, both essential to empathy as social creatures.

Our hati does not exist in isolation. In every conversation, there is our hati, the other person’s hati, and the conversational climate that holds them both.

If we ignore the surrounding context and focus solely on words, we risk missing the bigger picture, the opportunity to connect, and the invitation to practice other-centered listening—the kind of listening I explore in this book.

While others beautifully hit every note, Ki Midiyanto’s wife took center stage, threading her angelic voice throughout the melody (watch my Instagram Reel featuring her here). She sang in ancient Javanese, a language that even modern-day Javanese speakers may not fully comprehend. Yet, no one at the book launch needed to understand every word to feel its weight.

This mirrored something essential about conversations—there will always be things we will never fully grasp about the other person’s hati. But understanding another person is not about complete knowledge. It is about listening with the intent to connect, even when uncertainty remains.

In Debunk with Empathy, I explore this idea through the MALU framework, which encourages intellectual and cultural humility. Intellectual humility is recognizing that we don’t—and can’t—know everything, no matter how well-read or experienced we are. Cultural humility reminds us that our perspective is not universal, and that understanding requires openness to another’s lived reality.

We don’t need to be fluent in another’s experience to approach difficult health conversations with empathy. More often than not, empathy is about recognizing that when we talk with someone we care about on these thorny topics, there are always unknowns in their experience—and being totally okay with that.

To be part of a gamelan ensemble is to embrace interdependence, something that often feels at odds with the individualism cemented into modern life.

Every musician relies on the others, playing in sync with the irama (tempo) agreed upon by the group. You could be following the music sheet perfectly, but if you aren’t attuned to one another, the harmony remains out of reach.

Conversations about health are no different. We’re never really in isolation. Others may be depending on us to listen, to hold space, to offer the right response at the right moment.

Gamelan teaches us that music, like dialogue, is not a solo act. Every note depends on another, just as every conversation depends on mutual trust. Being attuned to the conversational climate is just one part of the equation. The other is recognizing that we don’t go through it alone.

This was the perfect transition into the fireside chat that followed the gamelan performance. Brittany Campbell, a scholar whose work focuses on healing as a community, sat down with me for a conversation centered around the theme: “How We Talk About Health is How We Heal.”

This idea of interdependence isn’t novel. We have always sought connection, turning to others to talk through our struggles and find support. But when those needs go unmet, the effects are felt in rising loneliness, fractured communities, and the difficulty of finding spaces where we can be both supported and heard.

Research on individualism and collectivism sheds light on how these unmet needs affect well-being. A study in Japan found that when people take responsibility in their relationships, they experience less anxiety and loneliness and greater life satisfaction [1]. Responsibility in dialogue—whether it’s showing up, listening actively, or holding space—contributes to emotional well-being.

At the same time, the study found that when people silence themselves completely for the sake of harmony, they can feel lonelier and more anxious [1]. Connection is not just about avoiding conflict. It is about creating a space where both people feel seen and heard. Holding space for others does not mean disappearing ourselves. It is not about choosing between harmony and honesty, but about creating a space where both can exist.

When we speak about health, we are not just exchanging information. We are engaging with hati, our own and the other person’s, within a shared atmosphere. Healing happens in rhythm with others—by listening, adjusting, and creating space for connection and trust.

That moment in Yogyakarta is what moved me to invite Ki Midiyanto and his UC Berkeley Javanese Gamelan Ensemble to open the launch of my book on how to talk about health.

This night was never just about launching a book. It was about sharing a piece of Nusantara with this warm community at UC Berkeley, because in times of uncertainty, I believe that music, stories, and generational wisdom can help heal the fractures we are experiencing.

People met for the first time and left as acquaintances. Some reconnected with long-lost friends. A giveaway from Beaneka Roastery & Kopiku Cafe made someone’s night. And in the midst of book signings, laughter, and deep discussions, Chef Nora Haron from SanDai + Kopi Bar, known for bridging Southeast Asian and Californian flavors, appeared with a plate of mi goreng from Curry Leaves Bistro, just when I realized I hadn't eaten all day.

This is what I wanted. A space where dialogue wasn’t just about speaking, but about feeling and understanding. If you were there, you know. And if you weren’t, I hope you’ll join me next time at our future gatherings.