The recording began with the birth of a baby boy in the middle of the night. His first cry brought a glimmer of happiness to a mother who was nearly unconscious from heavy bleeding, a father serving far away in the field, and two anxious families waiting outside the delivery room. Everyone smiled. Joy filled the air, and tears quietly streamed down faces painted with gratitude.

Year after year passed. The baby grew into a clever, brave, handsome boy who could speak far more critically than children his age. He loved reading, painting, horseback riding, and beating up bullies. Whenever he visited his Engku’s house, he would spend hours playing by the fish pond, helping coffee and palm oil farmers in the family plantation, while his Engku proudly introduced him to everyone around. No one knew that fifteen or twenty years later, that same little boy would eventually become a nightmare to himself.

I smiled remembering all of it. Apparently, I had once smiled that sincerely. I had once laughed that freely. Childhood truly was beautiful. Life, however, is cruel; the smile that once brought comfort slowly turned into something that no longer even resembled a smile.

When the boy was five years old, his head was split open after trying to fight off a thief at his favorite small shop. The shop owner was Budhe Titin, a widow whose husband had disappeared at sea. His body was never found, swallowed by the waves forever. From the moment the boy first heard that story until he grew into adulthood, he often visited Lawena Beach in Ambon just to bow his head and pray for the man who never returned. The beach was beautiful, but not to him. To that boy, it symbolized the struggle of a husband and a father.

That day he came home covered in blood. The aides in the house panicked and rushed around while Budhe Titin followed behind, apologizing repeatedly and informing everyone that the thief had been caught. The boy barely cared. He walked straight to the bathroom, washed the blood from his face, then went to the kitchen to grab some black coffee grounds and pressed them against the wound on his forehead.

His Engku had once told him stories about serving in Papua, where he had treated a bleeding wound the same way — with coffee. The boy remembered that story well.

Not long after, a young woman with a gentle face approached him carrying a medical kit. She smiled softly and reached out to bandage his wound, but the boy stubbornly insisted on keeping the coffee pressed against his forehead as it hardened together with the blood.

“You can use that in an emergency,” she said gently. “But now we actually have proper medicine and equipment.”

The boy shook his head.
“It’s already there, Mbak. Just leave it.”

Her name was Mbak Hanin. She was one of the personal aides assigned by the boy’s mother to accompany him in his daily life. Someday, she would become one of the very few people capable of making that boy speak a little more softly.

One day the boy asked her,
“Mbak Hanin is a soldier, right? So why are you taking care of me instead of fighting?”

She smiled faintly.
“I’d rather spend time with you than go to war. Protecting children is also part of a soldier’s duty.”

The boy immediately responded,
“But a lot of my friends aren’t protected by soldiers. Doesn’t that mean it’s unfair for them?”

Mbak Hanin fell silent for a long moment. She stared deeply into the boy’s eyes before whispering,
“This is my duty, Bang. I can’t question the reasons behind it. A duty must be carried out wholeheartedly, whether we like it or not. A soldier must fulfill the orders they are given.”

The boy remained quiet, trying to understand her words. Perhaps that was the moment his hatred toward soldiers first began to grow. Yet ironically, someday those same words would become one of the principles he lived by.

I lit another cigarette. Time had gone by so quickly. Sometimes I miss Mbak Hanin. The last time I saw her was during her husband’s military handover ceremony at Dhomber Air Base in Balikpapan. She hugged me tightly and introduced me to her two children — kind, intelligent, adorable kids. I only hope they never grow up to become someone like me.

I slowly exhaled the cigarette smoke. Life out there really is heavy. Somehow, my past now feels incredibly beautiful.

I need to write all of this down before I forget that I once lived through so many things.

I looked up at the moon. It was a crescent that night, as if smiling down at me. I laughed quietly to myself while the ember of the cigarette briefly illuminated my face again. I tried to smile, but tears came instead.

I whispered to my own heart, asking what was wrong with it. I tapped my head gently, wondering why my thoughts were always so loud and crowded.

In the end, I could only come to one conclusion: perhaps it was finally time to go home and sleep, so that tomorrow I would at least have enough strength left to survive the days ahead.

Di luar jendela, langit Jakarta mulai menggelap. Pantulan lampu gedung dan toko-toko kecil menari samar di kaca kereta yang buram. Ada suara notifikasi ponsel, suara anak kecil menangis, suara penjual minuman yang terdengar dari gerbong sebelah, dan pengumuman stasiun yang nyaris tenggelam oleh obrolan manusia-manusia lelah.

Temanku berdiri tepat di sampingku. Bajunya masih rapi, tapi matanya kosong seperti belum benar-benar pulang dari pekerjaannya.

“Untung aku dapat masuk,” katanya sambil menyesuaikan posisi kaki agar tidak terinjak orang.

Aku tertawa kecil.

“Kalau kelewat bisa sampai malam ya.”

“Paling jam delapan baru sampai rumah.”

“Wow, keren ya. Perjuangan sekali.”

“Itu juga kalau nggak macet di Stasiun Bogor.”

Ia mengatakannya datar. Tidak ada nada bercanda. Tidak ada senyum yang benar-benar hidup di wajahnya. Hanya suara seseorang yang terlalu lelah untuk marah.

Kereta berhenti mendadak. Beberapa orang oleng. Bahuku membentur lengan seorang bapak yang membawa tas kerja lusuh. Ia hanya mengangguk kecil, lalu kembali diam menatap lantai.

“Nggak kepikiran pindah kerja yang lebih dekat?” tanyaku.

“Nanti kalau dapat,” jawabnya pendek. “Udah mulai cari-cari juga.”

Ia menarik napas sebentar. Pendek. Berat.

“Yaudahlah. Jalanin aja. Anak masih kecil. Jangan macam-macam sama hidup.”

Aku terdiam.

Kalimat itu terdengar sederhana, tapi entah kenapa terasa seperti sesuatu yang sudah berkali-kali ia ucapkan pada dirinya sendiri. Bukan untukku.

Kereta kembali berjalan. Lampu di dalam gerbong berkedip sesaat sebelum stabil kembali. Di antara sesaknya manusia, aku memperhatikan wajah-wajah di sekelilingku. Ada seorang perempuan tertidur sambil berdiri dengan kepala bersandar di pintu. Ada lelaki tua yang memijat pelan lututnya. Ada anak magang berseragam kantor yang terus menatap layar ponselnya tanpa benar-benar melihat apa pun.

Tiba-tiba aku sadar, mungkin sebagian besar dari kami tidak benar-benar hidup di kota ini. Kami hanya bertahan di dalamnya.

“Anakmu umur berapa sekarang?” tanyaku pelan.

“Dua tahun.”

“Udah mulai ngomong?”

Ia tersenyum tipis untuk pertama kalinya malam itu.

“Udah. Sekarang apa-apa manggil ‘Ayah’. Padahal yang paling sering sama dia ibunya.”

Ada jeda sebentar.

“Kadang nyampe rumah dia udah tidur.”

Aku tidak tahu harus menjawab apa.

Di luar jendela, rel-rel gelap terus memanjang seperti tidak ada ujungnya. Gedung perlahan berganti rumah-rumah kecil yang berdempetan. Cahaya televisi terlihat dari celah-celah jendela warga. Kehidupan orang lain melintas cepat seperti potongan-potongan adegan yang tidak sempat dipahami.

“Capek nggak sih?” tanyaku akhirnya.

Ia tertawa kecil. Bukan tawa bahagia. Lebih seperti seseorang yang sudah terlalu sering kalah tapi masih dipaksa bermain.

“Capek.”

Lalu ia menatap lurus ke depan.

“Tapi lucu ya. Besok juga diulang lagi.”

Kereta kembali berhenti. Pintu terbuka. Orang-orang berdesakan turun dan naik tanpa benar-benar saling melihat wajah satu sama lain. Dalam keramaian itu, aku tiba-tiba merasa kota ini sangat sunyi.

Temanku memejamkan mata sebentar sambil menggenggam gantungan kereta lebih erat.

Dan untuk beberapa detik, di tengah suara roda besi dan pengumuman stasiun yang pecah, aku melihat sesuatu di wajahnya sesuatu yang mungkin juga ada di wajah kami semua.

Bukan marah.

Bukan sedih.

Hanya pasrah yang terlalu lama dipelihara.

The question is not merely “who determines our education,” but rather, more fundamentally: who benefits from the direction in which education is currently being shaped. As universities gradually shift from being spaces of knowledge inquiry to sites of labor production, education no longer fully stands as an institution of liberation, but instead begins to submit to the logic of the market.

Amid the uncertainty of today’s labor market, the term “relevance” has become a recurring mantra. Education is increasingly driven to produce graduates who are job-ready, adaptable, and capable of meeting industry demands. To a certain extent, this push is understandable. No one desires graduates to remain unemployed due to a mismatch between their competencies and the needs of the time. However, the problem arises when “relevance” is narrowly defined in terms of short-term labor market demands, as though the function of education were limited solely to workforce absorption.

The increasingly close relationship between universities and industry has indeed yielded positive outcomes, such as internship opportunities, applied research, and the enhancement of practical skills among students. The concept of link and match has emerged as a solution to the long-standing issue of graduate employability. Yet, in practice, this relationship also carries consequences. Universities begin to adjust their curricula not based on the development of knowledge, but in response to market demands. Vocational programs are expanded, partnerships with corporations are intensified, and gradually, disciplines considered “less profitable” are marginalized.

At this point, the question of who has the authority to determine the direction of education becomes increasingly significant. The state, through its policies and regulations, undoubtedly plays a major role in structuring the education system. Industry, with its economic power, also exerts substantial influence in defining which competencies are deemed valuable. However, between these two forces, the voice of education as a space for critical reflection often becomes diminished.

Eliminating academic programs or reducing the space for certain disciplines is not merely an administrative decision. It concerns individuals’ life choices, the diversity of thought, and the future of knowledge itself. When a field of study is labeled “irrelevant” simply because it does not directly align with industry needs, we are, in effect, oversimplifying the meaning of education. We overlook the fact that many major breakthroughs in history emerged from ideas that were once considered impractical or even useless.

If education is directed solely toward meeting the demands of today’s market, we risk losing the capacity to imagine alternative futures. The labor market itself is constantly evolving. Jobs that are considered relevant today may disappear in the near future. In such a context, an overly narrow education system makes individuals more vulnerable. They may be prepared for today’s jobs, but unprepared for tomorrow’s changes.

This is precisely why maintaining the diversity of academic disciplines is essential. Education should not only produce technically skilled workers, but also individuals who are capable of critical, reflective, and adaptive thinking. Interdisciplinary competence, imagination, and social sensitivity are increasingly important in the complexity of the modern world. Disciplines that are often deemed “irrelevant” may, in fact, provide the space for new perspectives that cannot emerge from purely technical approaches.

Ultimately, the fundamental question we must revisit is: education for whom. If the answer is for human beings, then education must not be reduced to a mere instrument of economic production. It must remain a space for intellectual freedom, exploration, and the emergence of possibilities that may not yet be imaginable today.

Preserving the diversity of disciplines is not simply about maintaining existing programs, but about safeguarding the ecosystem of knowledge itself. In a world marked by uncertainty, cognitive flexibility and breadth of perspective become the most valuable assets. A meaningful education is not only one that responds to the demands of the time, but also one that is capable of questioning the very direction of that time.

In the Indonesian context, the challenges experienced by Gen Z are not merely individual but deeply structural. The transition from education to employment is increasingly uncertain, often accompanied by economic instability and limited job opportunities. Research has shown that young people today face heightened concerns about financial security, career prospects, and long-term stability (Arnett, 2000). This uncertainty is further compounded by the pressures of digital life, where social comparison, fear of missing out, and constant connectivity shape self-perception and emotional well-being.

Psychologically, Gen Z is considered particularly vulnerable to mental health challenges. Studies have consistently found increasing levels of anxiety, stress, and depressive symptoms among adolescents and young adults (Twenge et al., 2018). In Indonesia, similar patterns have emerged, where academic pressure, family expectations, and social dynamics contribute significantly to psychological distress. The instability of broader societal conditions only amplifies these internal struggles, creating a layered experience of stress that is both personal and systemic.

Social media plays a dual role in this phenomenon. On one hand, it offers connection, self-expression, and access to supportive communities. On the other hand, excessive and unregulated use has been linked to lower psychological well-being, increased anxiety, and reduced self-esteem (Keles et al., 2020). The curated nature of online content often promotes unrealistic standards of success, beauty, and happiness, leading individuals to engage in harmful comparisons that undermine their sense of self-worth.

This situation creates a paradox. Gen Z is the most digitally connected generation, yet many experience profound emotional isolation. They are encouraged to be productive and resilient in a competitive environment, while simultaneously navigating an overwhelming influx of information and expectations. The culture of constant achievement, combined with economic and social instability, places them in a position where maintaining mental well-being becomes increasingly difficult.

However, it is important to recognize that Gen Z is not inherently fragile. Rather, they are more aware of mental health issues and more open to discussing them. This awareness can be seen as a strength, as it provides a foundation for developing healthier coping mechanisms. One of the most critical factors in maintaining mental health is resilience, defined as the ability to adapt positively in the face of adversity (Masten, 2014). Individuals with higher levels of resilience tend to demonstrate better psychological outcomes despite experiencing stress and uncertainty.

In addition to resilience, self-regulation and emotional awareness play essential roles. The ability to manage emotions, set realistic expectations, and maintain a balanced perspective can significantly reduce the impact of stress. Practical strategies such as limiting exposure to negative social media content, establishing supportive social relationships, and allowing time for rest and reflection are crucial for sustaining mental well-being. Furthermore, developing financial literacy and realistic career planning can help alleviate anxiety related to economic uncertainty.

Equally important is the acceptance that life does not always unfold according to societal timelines or expectations. The pressure to achieve success at a certain age often leads to unnecessary stress and self-doubt. In an unstable world, psychological flexibility — the capacity to adapt to changing circumstances without losing one’s sense of self — becomes a vital strength.

Ultimately, the instability faced by Gen Z in Indonesia reflects a broader global condition. While it presents undeniable challenges, it also creates opportunities for growth, adaptation, and the redefinition of success and well-being. This generation is not merely surviving within uncertainty but actively shaping new ways of understanding life, relationships, and mental health.

In this context, maintaining mental health is not a secondary concern but a fundamental necessity. The ability to remain emotionally grounded amidst uncertainty is a form of resilience that goes beyond survival. It represents a conscious effort to live meaningfully despite the complexities of the modern world. Through awareness, adaptability, and support, Gen Z can navigate these challenges while building a more sustainable and humane future.

References

Arnett, J. J. (2000). Emerging adulthood: A theory of development from the late teens through the twenties. American Psychologist, 55(5), 469–480. https://doi.org/10.1037/0003-066X.55.5.469

Keles, B., McCrae, N., & Grealish, A. (2020). A systematic review: The influence of social media on depression, anxiety and psychological distress in adolescents. International Journal of Adolescence and Youth, 25(1), 79–93. https://doi.org/10.1080/02673843.2019.1590851

Masten, A. S. (2014). Global perspectives on resilience in children and youth. Child Development, 85(1), 6–20. https://doi.org/10.1111/cdev.12205

Twenge, J. M., Joiner, T. E., Rogers, M. L., & Martin, G. N. (2018). Increases in depressive symptoms, suicide-related outcomes, and suicide rates among U.S. adolescents after 2010. Journal of Abnormal Psychology, 127(1), 3–16. https://doi.org/10.1037/abn0000410

It learns to feel warm
before a world that never truly wants to know
what is collapsing within me
They do not ask
and I no longer try to explain

This laughter is not loud
it is only enough to deceive the moment
like a dim light
forced to remain lit
in a room that has long lost its windows

There are silent walls within my chest
where echoes never return whole
There everything that once lived
slowly becomes a shadow
that refuses to be named as loss

I keep this laughter alive
like lighting a candle in the middle of a storm
not to illuminate
but so that others may believe
that everything is still fine

Yet behind it
there is a sky that keeps cracking
without sound
and a rain that never truly falls
only hanging
waiting for the moment I grow too tired
to keep pretending I am strong

In many families, wounds are indeed passed down unconsciously. The way a person expresses anger, love, avoidance, or resilience is often not something that emerges in isolation, but rather the result of recurring patterns shaped by previous generations. Trauma does not always manifest through major events. At times, it resides in silence, in rigid communication, in affection that is never expressed, or in expectations that are never resolved. It is transmitted not out of malice, but through a lack of awareness and an inability to heal.

At this point, it is true that assigning blame does not always offer a way forward. Blaming parents or previous generations often changes nothing except prolonging the pain itself. In many cases, they too are victims of the same patterns. There exists an invisible chain that binds each generation within ways of being they have never fully understood.

However, the idea of simply moving on is not without risk. To move beyond wounds without understanding them allows those wounds to persist in different forms. What is left unprocessed rarely disappears. It merely hides, only to re-emerge in relationships, decisions, or even in the way a person treats themselves. Moving on without acknowledgment can turn into denial, and denial rarely leads to genuine healing.

Perhaps, then, the more honest approach is not merely to avoid blame or to move on, but to understand, acknowledge, and consciously release. There is a profound difference between forgetting and making peace. Making peace requires the courage to see the wound as it is, neither exaggerating nor diminishing it. It calls for a willingness to stop passing on the same patterns, even if it means walking alone for a time.

Within this framework, the individual becomes a turning point. Not as someone who must bear the entire burden, but as a generation with the opportunity to break the cycle. This is not an easy task, as it often must be done without clear guidance. Yet it is precisely here that its meaning lies: that one can choose to become the beginning of something healthier, even when they come from something that was not whole.

So, is it true that no one needs to be blamed? Perhaps. But that does not mean nothing needs to be understood. And is it enough to simply move past the wound? Perhaps not. Some wounds are not meant to be bypassed, but to be gently touched, recognized, and released in a more humane way.

In the end, inheritance does not always have to be accepted as it is. It can be reshaped, reinterpreted, and even brought to an end. It is in that space, between inherited wounds and the awareness that emerges from them, that a person begins to truly find their freedom.

Pardi tak bisa lagi menyembunyikan kegembiraannya, tatkala dokter kandungan itu menyatakan bahwa Tini hamil. Dan masa kandungannya sudah satu bulan. Dengan menggandeng istrinya, Pardi tetap tak bisa mennyembunyikan kegembiraannya, bahwa dia akan segera punya anak.
Saking senangnya, Pardi bahkan lupa tuk membayar ongkos periksa klinik kesehatan kecamatan itu. Itupun karena dikejar petugas absensi pasien. Pardi pun, saking senangnya tak mempedulikan orang-orang yang sedang menertawai dirinya. Istrinya, Tini hanya mesem-mesem menahan malu atas tingkah suami tercintanya itu.

Semilir angin desa yang berhembus membawa kedua insan yang sedang dilanda kebahagiaan yang luar biasa itu menembus jalanan yang tidak beraspal, hanya tanah-tanah desa yang keras dan tandus. Dengan sepeda tuanya, Pardi membawa Tini yang duduk diboncengan belakang sepedanya pulang ke rumah mungilnya. Sejuk matahari masih mengikuti arah laju sepeda Pardi. Peluh menetes satu persatu, Pardi tak mempedulikan itu.
Roda sepeda terus berputar stabil meski kadang terganggu oleh jalanan yang berlubang. Setelah menempuh perjalanan hampir empat puluh lima menit, sampailah mereka di rumah mungil berpagar bambu dan bercat putih. Dengan hati-hati sekali Pardi menggandeng istrinya untuk masuk ke rumah. Diletakkan tubuh istrinya di kursi kayu. Pardi masuk ke dapur untuk mengambil air putih, setelah itu kesejukan menjalar ke tenggorokan mereka berdua.

Siang itu memang terasa sejuk, karena udara juga tidak terlalu panas. Udara yang begitu membuat mata Pardi mulai meredup, tapi tetap ditahannya. Tetap saja, Pardi tidak bisa mengalahkan rasa kantuknya, Tertidurlah dia di sebuah kursi panjang yang terbuat dari bambu itu.

“Mas, mas Pardi, bangun! Kerja, mas! nanti ndak dimarahi lagi sama mas roman.” Istri Pardi pagi itu membuyarkan mimpi indahnya Pardi.

“Iya dik. Jam berapa ini?” Pardi males-malesan untuk bergerak. Mimpi-mimpi itu masih membekas di otaknya.

“Jam tujuh lebih, cepat sana mandi!” teriakan Tini segera membuat Pardi melepas mimpi itu, dan segera menuju kamar mandi. Sedangkan Tini yang masih ada disamping kamar mandi itu masih sibuk meneruskan cucian bajunya.

“Nanti sore kita ketempat bu Narti lagi, dik”

“Malas, mas. Paling jawabannya seperti bulan kemarin, belum ada hasilnya.”

“Iya, tapi katanya bu Narti kita harus rutin periksanya.”

“Sudahlah mas, mungkin kita memang belum diberi Gusti Allah. Kita harus sabar, mas.”

Tini akhirnya menyudahi cuciannya, dia langsung meninggalkan suaminya yang masih berada dalam kamar mandi. Pardi pun terdiam kecewa. Impiannya untuk mempunyai keluarga yang sempurna belum terwujud. Tiba-tiba kembali mimpi mimpi tadi malam mengganggu pikirannya.
Memang sudah tiga tahun lebih ini Pardi dan Tini menjalani rumah tangga, tapi kebahagiannya belum sempurna karena sampai sekarang mereka belum dikaruniai seorang anak. Sudah puluhan dokter kandungan, sampai bidan desa telah mereka datangi, tapi semuanya tak membuahkan hasil. Ke dukun anak yang agak modern sampai yang konvensional pun sudah mereka sambangi, juga tak ada hasilnya.

Segala obat tradisonal juga sudah mereka konsumsi, juga tak membuahkan hasil dan memberi pengaruh apa-apa. Pardi selalu optimis bahwa mereka pasti akan mempunyai anak. Karena menurut dokter mereka berdua normal, tak ada yang kurang. Mungkin yang paling membahagiakan dari puluhan ahli tersebut hanya bu Narti, bidan desa yang nyambi jadi ahli ramal.

“Janinmu sudah ada, tapi emang belum kelihatan. Sebentar lagi kamu hamil Tin” Bu Narti meyakinkan Tini.

Walaupun jawaban itu sudah diberikan tiga kali oleh bu Narti, tapi semuanya itu membuat semangat hidup Pardi tumbuh lagi. Dari ketiga kali itu, Tini sudah yakin bahwa dia belum hamil. Tapi Pardi bersikukuh pada pendapat bu Narti, bahwa dia sebentar lagi akan melihat perut istrinya membuncit. Sedangkan Tini kurang percaya diri untuk yakin bahwa dia akan hamil.
Dia hanya pasrah, kepasrahan dia serahkan sepenuhnya pada kehendak tuhan. Begitulah kehidupan keluarga Pardi selama ini. Sebuah keluarga yang berharap sangat ingin mempunyai seorang momongan.

Setelah hampir enam bulan berlalu, Tini pun belum menampakkan tanda-tanda kehamilan, Pardi semakin risau dan kecewa. Setiap hari yang dia lakukan hanya melamun dan terbayang-bayang mimpi kehamilan Tini enam bulan yang lalu. Kadang di rumah dia hanya diam sambil menampakkan keganjilan perilakunya.

“Sudah kau belikan baju buat anak kita, Tin?” Pardi mengkhayal bahwa anaknya akan segera lahir.

“Kamu harus menjaga kesehatan mu Tin! Jangan sampai bayi kita itu tidak sehat. Itu udah tak belikan susu buat kamu dan buat bayi yang ada dalam kandunganmu.” Pardi makin tidak waras. Didepan tetangga pun, Pardi berkhayal bahwa dia akan segera punya bayi yang sehat.

“Lik Jadit, tolong nanti saya dibuatkan tempat tidur bayi ya lik.” Siang itu di dalam sebuah warung minum pinggir jalan Pardi menyuruh tetangganya untuk membuatkan tempat tidur bayi.

“Tapi istrimu belum hamil toh?” Lik Jadit bertanya heran dengan apa yang baru diucapkan Pardi.

“Istriku sudah hamil enam bulan lik. Lihat saja perutnya sudah semakin membesar. Anak ku nanti laki-laki lik.” Pardi semakin ngawur bicaranya. Lik Jadit geleng-geleng kepala kasihan melihat perilaku Pardi akhir akhir ini. Ia lalu pergi meninggalkan Pardi sendirian.

“Jangan lupa loh lik! sebulan lagi tak ambil!” Pardi berteriak ketika lik Jadit sudah menjauh meninggalkannya.

Pardi sudah tidak waras, sudah edan. Kini dalam alam pikiran Pardi adalah bahwa dia akan segera punya anak. Seperti harapannya sejak menikahi Tini. Mempunyai keluarga yang sempurna, yaitu penghasilan dan mempunyai anak.
Tapi kenyataan yang terjadi sampai hari ini keluarga Pardi belum dikaruniai seorang anak. Tapi, Pardi berkeyakinan bahwa ada bayi yang sudah berumur enam bulan berada dalam rahim istrinya.

Istrinya sedih. Dia tak bisa berbuat apa-apa. Dulu, pernah dia mengatakan kepada suaminya itu, bahwa dia belum hamil. Pardi seketika langsung marah-marah, dan selama seminggu dia tidak mau bekerja. Tini hanya pasrah. Dan hari ini, setelah peristiwa itu, dia menuruti saja kemauan suaminya kalau dia memang sedang hamil.
Hampir berbulan-bulan Tini bersandiwara kepada suaminya itu kalau dia telah hamil. Itu dilakukan agar rumah tangganya tetap utuh, dan agar suaminya tidak marah-marah lagi dan mau bekerja. Meski semuanya itu hanya bersandiwara belaka.

“Istirahatmu harus cukup, Tin! Ini tak belikan mangga muda buat kamu rujakan.” Hati Tini menangis dan sedih melihat perilaku suamninya itu.

“Ya Allah, cobaan apa yang telah Engkau berikan kepada kami?” Tini dalam hatinya berdoa. Air matanya menetes pelan di pipinya.

“Kalau sudah lahir nanti akan kuberi nama Satria Wibawa, biar nanti anakku menjadi kesatria yang berwibawa,Tin. Pasti anakku nanti berwajah tampan, gagah dan pintar seperti bapaknya. Iya nggak Tin?” Pardi tersenyum sendiri. Yang ditanya hanya mengangguk pelan.

Tini semakin teriris hatinya. Suaminya ternyata sudah makin gila. Dia berjalan pelan menjauhi suaminya yang masih bergulat dengan angan-angan hampanya. Langit memudar menjadi jingga. Senja akan tergelar dengan alamnya yang buram dan remang.Beberapa kelelawar bekerja mengarungi malam yang hening dan sepi.

Rembulan belum menampakkan kecantikannya karena langit masih menemani matahari yang akan pulang ke peraduannya. Di dalam kamar tidru, Tini menangis. Tangisan iba dan sedih yang sudah ia tahan sejak tadi, kini meleleh tak terbendung lagi. Dalam tangisan itu, dia memohon kepada Tuhan, hanya untuk kesembuhan suaminya agar menjadi normal kembali. Dia kini tak berpikir untuk hamil. Yang dia pikir hanyalah untuk kesembuhan suaminya. Kini, dia tersungkur diatas sajadah tua di kamarnya. Matahari sudah hilang. Malam menjuntai pelan.

“Pardi wis edan!” Para tetangga siang itu sedang membicarakan tingkah polah si Pardi yang semakin tidak waras.

Setelah sembilan bulan berlalu, Pardi belum juga sembuh dari ketidakwarasannya. Malahan kini semakin edan dan kenthir. Dia menyangka bayinya sudah lahir. Ke mana-mana dia selalu menggendong boneka plastik yang dia sangka anaknya.

“Eh jangan pipis lho le! Ini bapak mau kerja. Cup..cup jangan nangis ya le! Jadi laki-laki itu nggak boleh cengeng.” Orang-orang saling memandang. Semua yang melihat tingkah Pardi memandang sedih dan iba.

Mereka tidak menyangka Pardi akan berubah seperti itu. Padahal dulunya, Pardi adalah seorang laki-laki yang giat bekerja,pintar dan sayang sama istrinya. Sekarang semua berubah seratus delapan puluh derajat, akibat keinginannya yang sangat untuk memiliki seorang anak.

Kini Pardi sudah tidak bekerja lagi, Mas Roman terpaksa memberhentikan Pardi karena menganggap Pardi tidak bisa bekerja secara normal. Akhirnya Tini yang harus pontang-panting mencari uang untuk menjadi pekerja lepas di pabrik gerabahnya Mas Haji Pem.

Dengan hati perih dan sedih Tini ikhlas menerima ujian dari Tuhan. Tapi dia tetap berusaha untuk mencari jalan keluar demi kesembuhan suami tercintanya itu. Setiap hari ia memeras otak untuk mencari jalan keluar masalah kehidupan keluarganya. Obat dan orang pintar sudah dia ikhtiarkan. Tapi belum satu pun yang berhasil.

“Bayi yang dikandung Mbak Sum meninggal baru saja pada saat lahiran, Tin. Tapi Mbak Sum selamat. Sebentar akan diadakan pemakaman untuk anaknya, Mbak sum ingin segera dikuburkan.” Tetangga Tini pagi itu memberi kabar tentang berita kematian seorang bayi dari tetangga pada saat melahirkan.

“Oh. Innalillahi wa ‘innailaihi roiun” Hanya itu yang diucapkan Tini. Seketika itu otaknya bekerja. Dengan pelan ia menghampiri suaminya yang masih tertidur di kamar, lalu dengan hati-hati, dia mengambil boneka bayi yang ada di dekapan suaminya itu. Pardi masih tertidur, dia tidak tahu kalu istrinya mengambil boneka bayi yang ada di dekapannya. Masih pelan-pelan dan hati-hati Tini mengambil boneka plastik itu, dia takut kalau ketahuan oleh suaminya. Akhirnya dia berhasil mengambil boneka bayi itu. Pardi pun masih pulas tertidur.

Siang harinya, Tini mulai berakting.

“Mas, bayi kita meninggal. Iya, Satria meninggal mas. Sekarang sudah dikuburkan oleh para tetangga.” Tini pura-pura menangis. Aktingnya meyakinkan.

“Apa tin? Satria meninggal? Tidak mungkin! Tadi malam masih saya keloni.” Pardi berteriak tidak percaya.

“Kalau mas Pardi tidak percaya, kita sekarang ke kuburannya mas!” Tini masih berpura pura sedih.

Tanpa dikomando mereka berdua langsung menuju kuburan di pinggir kampungitu. Setelah sampai di kuburan, Pardi berteriak-teriak. Sebetulnya Tini merasa sedih meihat suaminya mendera kesedihan seperti itu. Tapi itu satu satunya jalan untuk menyembuhkan suaminya.

“Oh Satria. Ini tidak mungkin! Tidak mungkin!” Pardi masih berteriak dan meratap di kuburan yang masih baru dan basah itu, yang tak lain adalah kuburan bayi tetangganya.

Tiba-tiba Pardi berdiri dan berlari meninggalkan tanah perkuburan itu dan meninggalkan Tini yang terkesiap melihat suaminya berlari meninggalkannya. Pardi sudah menghilang. Langit siang itu nanar warnanya, kelihatan mendung akan mewarnai malam ini. Dan siang itu, Tini yang ditinggalkan sendirian, akhirnya meninggalkan kuburan itu untuk mengikuti suaminya tadi. Tini berpikir suaminya pasti sudah ada di rumah. Setelah membuka pintu rumahnya, Tini berteriak histeris.

“Ya Allah, mas Pardi!” Yang dipanggil diam saja. Karena suaminya, Pardi, kini sudah tergantung kaku tak bergerak dengan sebuah selendang yang melilit lehernya di kayu atap rumahnya. Tubuhnya perlahan dingin tak bernyawa.

Warning: Cerita ini terinspirasi dari sebuah kisah nyata dan sudah dimodifikasi demi menjaga etika dan tanggung jawab moral penulis. Segala bentuk kesamaan latar, peristiwa, dan nama tokoh murni fiksi dan tidak bermaksud menyinggung pihak manapun.
Terima kasih sudah membaca:)

Kafe itu penuh.

Suara tawa berbaur dengan denting gelas, percakapan saling bersahutan tanpa jeda. Di sudut ruangan, sekelompok orang merayakan sesuatu ulang tahun mungkin, atau sekadar alasan untuk berkumpul. Di meja lain, dua orang berbicara serius, sesekali tertawa kecil.

Di tengah semua itu, Nara duduk sendirian.

Tangannya memegang cangkir kopi yang sudah dingin. Ia tidak benar-benar meminumnya, hanya sesekali mengaduk, memperhatikan pusaran kecil yang terbentuk lalu hilang. Matanya menatap ke arah keramaian, tetapi pikirannya seperti berada di tempat lain.

Aneh rasanya berada di tengah banyak orang, namun merasa kosong.

Bukan karena ia tidak punya teman. Kontaknya penuh, notifikasinya tak pernah sepi. Ia bisa saja mengirim pesan kepada siapa pun saat itu juga. Tapi entah mengapa, ada jarak yang tak terlihat, yang membuat semua terasa jauh.

Nara menghela napas pelan.

Beberapa waktu terakhir, perasaan itu datang lebih sering. Kesepian yang tidak berisik, tapi menetap. Ia mencoba mengalihkan diri keluar bersama teman, menonton, bahkan bekerja lebih lama dari biasanya. Namun setiap kali ia kembali sendirian, perasaan itu tetap ada.

Seperti ruang kosong yang tidak bisa diisi oleh keramaian.

Malam itu, ia akhirnya menyerah untuk melawan perasaan itu dengan cara yang sama.

Ia berdiri, meninggalkan kafe yang masih riuh, lalu berjalan tanpa tujuan yang jelas. Lampu-lampu kota menyala terang, kendaraan berlalu-lalang, dan dunia tetap bergerak seperti biasa.

Langkahnya berhenti di depan sebuah masjid kecil.

Lampunya redup, pintunya terbuka. Tidak banyak orang di dalam. Hanya beberapa yang duduk diam, sebagian lagi menunduk dalam doa.

Nara ragu sejenak.

Sudah lama ia tidak benar-benar datang dengan niat selain sekadar menggugurkan kewajiban. Ada jarak yang ia ciptakan sendiri bukan karena ia tidak percaya, tapi karena ia terlalu sibuk mencari jawaban di tempat lain.

Namun malam itu, ia melangkah masuk.

Udara di dalam terasa berbeda lebih tenang, lebih lapang. Ia duduk di saf paling belakang, menatap ke depan tanpa benar-benar fokus pada apa pun.

Beberapa menit berlalu dalam diam.

Lalu perlahan, ia menundukkan kepala.

Tidak ada kalimat yang ia siapkan. Tidak ada doa panjang yang ia hafal. Hanya satu perasaan yang akhirnya ia akui ia lelah.

Lelah merasa sendiri.

Lelah mencari tanpa menemukan.

Dan untuk pertama kalinya setelah sekian lama, ia berhenti mencoba terlihat kuat.

Air matanya jatuh tanpa suara.

Di tengah keheningan itu, ia mulai berbicara pelan, tidak teratur, bahkan mungkin tidak jelas. Tapi untuk pertama kalinya, ia merasa didengar.

Bukan oleh manusia.

Melainkan oleh sesuatu yang selama ini ia abaikan.

Malam itu tidak mengubah segalanya secara instan. Kesepian itu tidak serta-merta hilang. Dunia di luar tetap sama, orang-orang tetap sibuk dengan hidup mereka masing-masing.

Namun ada sesuatu yang berubah di dalam dirinya.

Ia tidak lagi merasa benar-benar sendiri.

Sejak malam itu, Nara mulai kembali bukan hanya ke tempat itu, tapi ke kebiasaan-kebiasaan kecil yang dulu ia tinggalkan. Ia mulai meluangkan waktu untuk diam, untuk berdoa, untuk sekadar duduk dan berbicara dalam sunyi.

Perlahan, ia belajar bahwa ketenangan tidak selalu datang dari luar.

Kadang, ia tumbuh dari dalam dari hubungan yang pelan-pelan ia bangun kembali.

Kesepian itu masih ada sesekali. Namun kini, ia tidak lagi menakutkan.

Karena Nara tahu, di balik sunyi yang ia rasakan, selalu ada tempat untuk kembali.

Tempat di mana ia tidak perlu berpura-pura.

Tempat di mana ia tidak pernah benar-benar sendirian.

Referensi: Hasil riset pribadi saya dengan judul “The Role of Spirituality in Moderating the Effect of
Loneliness on the Subjective Well-Being of
University Students”

In a hospital waiting room, Daffa sat with his back slumped against a cold chair. The white lights shone too brightly, as if leaving no space for anyone to hide from reality. In his hand, a sheet of medical results lay neatly folded opened too many times, read too many times, yet still too difficult to accept.

The diagnosis had come without warning, like rain falling out of nowhere.

He had never really been sick before. His life had been ordinary stable enough, predictable enough. Until that day, when the doctor mentioned the name of a condition unfamiliar to his ears, yet heavy on his chest. Not fatal, the doctor had said. But enough to change many things in his life.

The plans that once felt close now seemed to slowly drift away.

Daffa lowered his gaze. Around him, people came and went with their own stories. Some cried, some smiled in relief, others sat in silence like him.

He was one of the last.

“Why now?” he whispered in his heart.

The question was simple, yet it hung without an answer. He tried to search what went wrong, what was lacking, what he could have done differently. But the more he searched, the more he felt lost in his own thoughts.

There was anger he refused to admit. There was disappointment he buried deep. Not only toward the situation, but toward something greater something he had always believed governed everything.

He let out a long breath and rested his head against the wall.

Amid the chaos in his mind, a sentence suddenly crossed his thoughts like a voice coming from somewhere distant, yet deeply familiar.

“Perhaps the longest act of worship is not marriage, but maintaining good faith in God’s decree.”

Daffa slowly opened his eyes. The sentence was simple, something he might have heard before. But somehow, that afternoon, it felt different as if it came at the exact moment he needed it most.

Maintaining good faith. He let out a faint, bitter smile.

All this time, he thought he had tried hard enough to be good. He prayed, he worked hard, he tried to live his life the right way. But when reality did not align with his expectations, everything began to shake.

It turned out that maintaining good faith was not only about accepting pleasant things.

It was tested precisely when everything felt unfair.

Daffa looked at the paper in his hand. The medical terms were still there, unchanged. The illness remained; it did not disappear just because he tried to understand it. But slowly, his perspective began to shift.

Maybe this was not a punishment. Maybe this was not about failure. Maybe this was part of a story he had yet to understand.

He remembered how he had always wanted life to go according to plan neat, orderly, predictable. But life, it seemed, was never truly like that. There were parts that could not be controlled, only accepted.

And perhaps, that was where the real struggle lay.

Maintaining good faith in God’s decree meant continuing to believe, even when logic could not explain. It meant moving forward, even when the path felt unclear. It meant choosing calmness in the face of what could not be changed.

It was not easy. In fact, it might be the hardest thing of all.

Daffa took a deep breath. For the first time since receiving the news, his chest no longer felt as tight. Not because the problem had disappeared, but because he had stopped fighting it in the wrong way.

He folded the paper again and slipped it into his bag.

Outside the waiting room, the sky began to change color. Afternoon slowly turned into dusk.

Daffa stood up.

He knew his life would never be the same after that day. There would be new limitations, new adjustments to face. But he also knew his life had not stopped.

And perhaps, this was where he truly began to learn.

To learn that not everything needs to be understood immediately.

To learn that not every pain must be resisted.

And to learn that behind every decree that feels heavy, there is always space to believe.

He stepped out of the waiting room with a calmer stride.

Because now he understood there are acts of devotion that are unseen, unheard, and often misunderstood by others.

Yet those are the ones that last the longest.

Maintaining good faith in God’s decree.

This story is inspired by a friend’s thoughts during a moment of happiness. Any resemblance in names, settings, or conflicts is purely coincidental, as this is a work of fiction. Thank you for reading.

The rain had stopped, but the earth still held its rumble.

At an emergency shelter in Aceh, among white tents and the lingering smell of damp mud, a young boy sat alone. His name was Rizal. He was ten years old, yet his face that day looked far older.

His clothes were stiff with dried mud. His feet were covered in cuts. His shoulders still ached with a pain he could not explain to anyone.

He arrived that afternoon, after walking for two days without a clear direction.

It had all begun on a night when the rain fell without mercy. The river overflowed, and the ground behind their house began to crack. His father shouted for everyone to get out. His mother clutched his baby sibling tightly. Wind and water blended with the low, shifting growl of the earth, like a giant awakening from sleep.

Then the landslide came.

The ground collapsed in an instant. In that brief chaos, his father managed to grab his mother’s hand. Amid the deafening roar, his father saw Rizal frozen in the doorway.

“Run! Carry your little sisy! Don’t stop!”

Those were the last words he heard.

Rizal did not look back. He lifted his baby sister into his arms, holding the trembling little body close, and ran. Water up to his knees battered his legs. Rain pierced his face. Behind him, his home vanished beneath the earth.

He ran without knowing where he was going.

He spent the first night under a large tree, clutching his sister tightly to shield him from the cold. The toddler’s cries broke through the fading rain. Rizal could only stroke his back and whisper that everything would be alright, even though he no longer knew what “alright” meant.

Morning came with fog and the smell of wet soil. He walked again.

His feet began to blister. His shoulders felt as though they were being dragged down, not only by the small body in his arms, but by his father’s words echoing in his mind: don’t stop.

On the second day, his sister grew quieter. Usually, the toddler would whimper or ask for water. This time, there was nothing. Rizal thought he was simply exhausted. He tried to feed her the last crumbs of biscuit he had, but there was no response.

He kept walking.

He talked along the way, telling her they were almost there, that Father and Mother would surely follow. He did not realize that the voice he was speaking to could no longer hear him.

Toward evening, he saw white tents in the distance. People were moving quickly, some in uniforms. There was a flag. There were voices, steady, organized, unlike the chaos of nature.

With the last of his strength, Rizal moved toward them.

A volunteer spotted him first, a small boy stumbling forward, carrying a limp toddler. They rushed to meet him, supporting Rizal’s body as it nearly gave way.

When a female volunteer tried to take his sister from his arms, Rizal tightened his hold for a moment, as if afraid of being separated.

But within seconds, everything changed.

The volunteers exchanged glances. A heavy silence fell between them.

The small body Rizal had been carrying had long since stopped breathing.

No one knew when.

Rizal stood still. He did not cry. He did not scream. He simply stared blankly at the tent, as if trying to comprehend something far too large for his young mind.

“Father said don’t stop,” he murmured.

And he hadn’t.

That night, after his sister’s body was gently taken away, Rizal sat alone on a folding chair at the shelter. A thin blanket rested on his shoulders. For the first time in two days, he was not walking. Not running.

He fell asleep curled into himself.

Outside the tent, the sky slowly cleared. The sun emerged, casting light over the mud, the ruins, and the faces of those who had lost so much. Amid the devastation, the story of a boy who kept walking to honor his father’s last words remained, a quiet testament that even in the fiercest disaster, courage can be born from love.

The courage not to stop.