My Ayah was an incredible person. He could be my best friend, closer to me than my friends my own age and everyone else I knew. Believe me. My closeness with him was like that of the index and middle fingers. I loved spending long stretches of time with him, and he was willing to keep me company as long as no important business interrupted our time together. I would ramble on and on, asking for this and that, telling him all about the things that happened to me. He would give small nods, comment when necessary, and advise me whenever I was wrong.
I fell asleep in front of the television countless times, of course with my head on Ayah's shoulder. When I woke the next morning, I would find myself tucked into bed in my room, because Ayah had carried me there carefully.
Another distinctive trait of Ayah's was his sense of humor. He was as skilled at joking with us as he was at entrepreneurship. Every night before bed, after Ayah came home from selling goods, I could be certain that laughter would explode throughout the house. He was like Benyamin S, the Betawi Legend, whose eccentric, savory jokes seemed endless. Kak Ipah once laughed so hard that she wet herself. Emak said I even slept while mumbling and called for him repeatedly in the middle of the night. And what I admired most about his kind nature was that whenever I was sad and heartsick, he was often the first person to comfort me, willing to listen to my complaints, strengthen my spirit, and advise me wisely. Though he did not ramble on at length like Emak, I understood that behind his gaze, his words, and the gentle stroke of his hand on my shoulder lay an abundance of affection that would take a very long time to explain.
"The problems you face will feel heavy and complicated if you carry them alone and entrust them only to yourself. Bring Allah into your heart, and ask Him for help. No matter how heavy or complicated the problem is, He will make it easier," he explained once.
At first, I did not understand. Little by little, I began to grasp that advice as I grew into adulthood: human beings are incredibly weak without His help. The opposite is true as well. With His help and power, a person can become extraordinarily strong and unbeatable.
Besides that, this extraordinarily loving man had an amazing habit I wanted to imitate when I became a father someday. Whenever he was about to go to the mosque for congregational Maghrib prayer, attend a monthly religious study gathering, or visit and pay respects to the teachers in my village, he asked me to accompany him. I understood only later that Ayah had been giving me a priceless life lesson: setting a good example for his family. His respect for elders, the way he loved younger people, and the way he spoke with kindness and courtesy—Ayah always demonstrated all of it for me. And those were only a few of his other kindnesses; describing them all would take pages and pages. When I grew older, I began counting and weighing these things. Why did Ayah seem to forget his exhaustion while working, leaving before dawn and coming home at dusk? What struggles and complaints did he endure at work that I knew nothing about? Whenever I imagined it one day, my chest tightened as I held back tears. Because to him, love was sacrifice. His tired body, sweat-soaked clothes, and faint smile when he saw me at twilight were powerful proof that his love had no equal. His affection for his family overcame every suffering and obstacle life placed in his path. He was like a poem, meaningful words flowing through his veins and passed down to me. Or like the moon in the silence of a pitch-black night, whose presence I longed for dearly. And I—quite naturally—became a son who loved his father deeply and dreamed of becoming like him.
Then, like the tragedy of the night of September 30, 1965, for the people of Indonesia, the day Ayah left us became the worst day of our lives, for my little family. The sky was overcast, as if mourning with us. Black clouds drifting high above seemed sorrowful. Thunder occasionally boomed, as if trying to announce something. Our entire family felt his loss terribly. During his funeral, I stubbornly refused to go along and escort his body because I did not want to look childish in front of so many people. I preferred to pour out everything in my heart, along with my tears, in my private room. My body trembled as I faced this reality. My head throbbed, haunted by all kinds of thoughts. A fleeting black shadow began to stalk me. I speculated and drew my conclusion: many things would be different from then on, and surely life would be harder to endure without Ayah.
I found Kak Ipah with a swollen face, reluctant to speak. She went to the kitchen to help Nenek cook or wash dirty dishes, never raising her voice except when necessary. Sometimes she tried to calm me, but in reality, her crying lasted longer than mine. As the firstborn, Kak Ipah was naturally more worried about the days ahead. Her thoughts were reaching toward things that had never crossed her mind before. What would become of this little family? What would she have to do as the eldest child?
Blah blah blah.
Yet the sorrow we suffered did not amount to even half a percent of the grief Emak felt. It was the first time I had ever seen Emak suddenly faint. She was more shocked than someone who had seen a headless ghost. The thing she had feared so deeply, the thing that had left her anxious yesterday, had now come true. This bitter reality was difficult for her to accept. To let him go, she would need more time than we, her children, did. Her suffering was unimaginable. Her wails kept breaking out as tears streamed down in torrents, no matter how hard she tried to hold them back. Her chest tightened with pain. Her heart cried out:
"God, why did You take him from me so soon..."
I was sad because I was looking at Emak's face. She seemed gloomier than ever. I knew her so well as a strong woman, and perhaps Emak had already experienced much sorrow. But only this time did she look so devastated and miserable, as though an enormous trial had befallen her. After regaining consciousness, Emak kept sobbing beside the body. Her eyes stared at her husband's body wrapped in a shroud as if she regretted something. Her parents and siblings repeatedly tried to strengthen her heart and advised her, but they still could not ease her grief. Even after the mourners and those who had escorted the body dispersed, Emak continued to shed tears from time to time. In Emak's eyes, her husband had been the spring of life. Now she was weak and thirsty because that spring had vanished. All this time, that loving man had been one of the lamps of her life, lighting her way through the darkness of life's labyrinth. Now that light had gone out. She was afraid to step forward because the road was dark. Anxiety and fear overwhelmed her, like a sailor tossed about in the middle of the deep, cold, violent Pacific Ocean. Alone. Pitch-black. Terrifying.
"Oh, Allah..."
Emak repeated those words again and again, amid sobs that would not end. She seemed powerless to face this reality. Only by speaking His name could she find peace. For it was to the One who bore that name that she wished to entrust her hopes and ask for protection—from all the endless trials of life.
The next day, Emak suddenly became withdrawn and absent-minded. The light of her life dimmed like a star running out of energy. Her world became empty and lonely because her joy and zest for life had been buried with her husband's body. There were no colors besides gray and black; red, yellow, and green had vanished, left behind with the memories. Emak seemed to have entered a strange new world she had never encountered before. That world was frightening and boring. The flowers in front of the house, which she regularly watered every morning, looked wilted and withered. The flocks of kutilang and pergantil birds that sang in the yard every morning suddenly fell silent, as if they too felt the terrible pain we were experiencing. This house was silent and different as well. There were no more special dinners, because they would always be incomplete. In her daydreams, she wanted to repeat the life they had once lived, or go far away to a beautiful world with the people she loved. But it was impossible. She felt that something precious had been stolen from her, something more valuable than jewelry or anything else she owned. She wanted to search for it, but where? She wanted to ask, but whom? It left her listless. Minute after minute, she wasted sleeping or daydreaming, just like a fox hibernating after the first snowfall. Perhaps that was how she could forget her sorrow and suffering.
Then, from somewhere else, a sudden, painful longing emerged. Her chest felt tight and ached as if her asthma had returned. The feeling arrived without warning when her memory instantly displayed portrait after portrait of her beloved husband, dancing through her mind. Glimpses of the life she had shared with him were deeply recorded and now replayed before her with perfect clarity, like watching an outdoor movie at night while a neighbor was hosting a celebration. It only deepened her grief and made her blood boil. She was angry as she cursed inwardly:
Why did you leave so soon, abandoning your wife and children?
Didn't you know I was confused about how to face the days ahead?
And the questions were never answered.
Could I replace him? At the very least, could I take my husband's place when they missed him?
And countless other questions filled her mind, like arrows raining down upon her. They made her suffer.
Before this, Emak had been able to imagine tomorrow with an atmosphere as beautiful as clear July weather. She and her husband had vowed to live and die together, carefully weaving this family life with patience, love, and affection. She thought it would be easy to make those hopes and dreams come true. But that desire soon evaporated and disappeared along with the presence of her beloved husband. Only then did she realize how vulnerable and fragile she was, like cotton. Everything was so difficult, especially imagining the future. The future was like a terrifying gate of darkness, capable of making her steps tremble. Her courage vanished and turned into confusion. Without realizing it, clear tears fell from the corners of her eyes, warm as they traced the curves of her cheeks and trickled from her chin. In her distress, her innermost heart kept praying that God would make every one of her affairs easier. Please... please... please...
That afternoon, the sky was as red as blood, and the wind carried the distinctive fragrance of frangipani blossoms. A melodious sound rose from nature, as if it were singing life's elegy. Suddenly, Emak called us. Her face was swollen from shedding so many tears. I was seven years old at the time, in second grade and still innocent. She hugged us very tightly, as if afraid of losing us, while she began crying hysterically again behind her children's shoulders. Like a little child seeking protection from her parents. When I noticed, her face had grown even puffier, covered in sweat and tears. As an adult, I understood that Emak could not bear to imagine us living without Ayah forever. A very harsh life awaited us, and we would have to get through it with her. The burden she carried was clearly visible on her face. From that second on, she had to take over a mountain of Ayah's responsibilities. There were countless household tasks and problems she had to solve. From that day forward, she was not merely a stay-at-home mother who took care of us, but also a father ready to provide for us, a teacher who educated us wisely, a doctor who treated our physical and emotional illnesses, a judge who passed judgment on our mistakes, and a soldier who protected our safety. Until the end of her life.
"Strengthen our hearts. Pour Your mercy upon us. Make them devout sons and daughters who make their parents proud and are useful to others."
She said that prayer very often. After the five daily prayers, upon waking in the stillness of night, when she first opened her eyes in the morning, while taking a short rest at midday or in the afternoon, as she was about to close her eyes again, and even whenever she thought of it. Anytime. Anywhere.
I believe in miracles. One of them is the miracle of a parent's answered prayer, unobstructed by anything. And I believe that someday, that prayer will come true.
A night without stars would surely be beautiful no longer. Walking on one leg is clearly not easy. Life without a husband felt lonely and difficult to endure. Our family's finances fell into chaos after Ayah's death, like the monetary crisis that struck Indonesia at the time. If plotted on a graph, the line would slope downward and keep descending. Emak, both the head of the household and the finance minister of this little nation, was confused about how to face the serious problem of our daily spending budget. To meet the family's needs, there were many expenses but never any income. Within five months, the inheritance left by my late Ayah had dwindled, even though we had been as frugal as possible. The motorcycle that had usually accompanied him to work, along with the jewelry he had given her, had to be sold to provide business capital and food. But it was hopeless! There was still no sign of improvement.
One business venture after another ended in bankruptcy. And that made sense, considering that Emak had previously been a good stay-at-home mother who remained at home, handling the kitchen, the bed, and the well. It had never crossed her heart or mind that she would have to replace her husband by earning a living. My mother was not talented in many areas, like Meriam Belina, who was skilled at acting in front of a camera. She was merely an ordinary village woman, an elementary school graduate with no experience. But the law of survival forced her to keep searching for solutions. So circumstances meant she had to work, no matter how, if she wanted to live. Unfortunately, the road to success was filled with obstacles, steep and treacherous. It was so long, distant, and difficult for most people to reach. Many people became lost or fell to the bottom of a ravine and died horribly. And my mother was one of those who nearly suffered that fate.
Perhaps God intended her to become a strong woman like a man. She began by trying to continue her husband's business, selling fruit at Karang Ampel market. But the reality of the work was too difficult to endure. It was very much a man's job. Carrying dozens of kilos of goods was a man's job. Working under the hot sun to harvest fruit in the rice field was a man's job. Getting covered in dirt, with one's body coated in sap, was considered fit only for men. And staying at the market from before dawn until afternoon was something a man was supposed to do as well. Who would handle the household chores? Worse, Emak came home battered and bruised. She fell ill for several days after doing this hard labor. On top of that, her children were left uncared for. So she decided that this difficult work had to be abandoned.
She then switched to selling vegetables door to door. She became diligent about night prayer because she had to wake up at three in the morning to shop at the market. As soon as she returned, she pushed her cart around the village. But before a month had passed, her business collapsed because she could not compete with the other vegetable sellers. Once again, Emak experienced failure in business.
Weeks of unemployment left her heart restless. Then a month passed. A few days later, Mang Saleh accepted her as a permanent employee at his cracker company. Unlike most companies, Emak was hired without an application, a test, or any requirements. It was not because Mang Saleh lacked workers or desperately needed her labor. More precisely, he could not bear to see our family struggling through such turmoil.
Working at a cracker factory was considered hard labor for a creature called a woman. Emak had realized that long before. She started work at one in the afternoon and did not return until just before Maghrib, sometimes even after Isha, when all the crackers had been cooked and neatly packed in plastic, ready to be sold the next morning. The work itself was easy enough for anyone to do, but it required extra strength: frying thousands of round white crackers and square brown crackers, standing for hours beside a hot fire, getting covered in oil, and packaging everything as neatly as possible.
Yet all that expenditure of stamina was repaid with a small wage: ten thousand rupiah. It was enough for that day's food and nothing more. Meanwhile, the educational expenses of her two children in elementary school, tuition fees, and school supplies still had to be considered. In the end, it was not the best solution. When she arrived home, she looked dirty, sweaty, and exhausted, carrying crackers in a package for our dinner. After Isha prayer, she went straight to sleep if there were no guests. She slept deeply. And that was not even counting her busy mornings, which were as demanding as the muscles in her arms. We still had the rice field inherited from Ayah to cultivate. Sometimes Kak Ipah and I took turns caring for it diligently, trying to reduce her exhaustion after a day's work, even if all we did was weed vegetables, pull out grass, and build the raised banks. Emak was incredible; she was never ashamed to do men's work—work considered unfit for a woman. She hoed the earth, sprayed crops, applied urea fertilizer, harvested rice, and did other heavy labor. Even when scorched by the sun and wading through mud, she never complained for a moment. As we grew up, she became our role model, and I declared her a strong and powerful woman.
Being poor is not merely a matter of people being too lazy to work, my friend. There are many cases of people who struggle relentlessly from morning until night, without a day off, yet remain trapped in poverty. Sometimes heredity plays a role, too. When parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents are not wealthy, work at whatever they can find, and lack sufficient knowledge, that also affects a child's fate, making it difficult for them to find the paths wealthy people's children normally take while building careers. Emak was one such person, unexpectedly becoming the family's breadwinner. She had bravely changed course from being a stay-at-home mother, trying every possible way to earn a living, but she still had not found any promising solution. Her parents were ordinary farmers, graduates of people's school, not wealthy people with plenty of capital. Our relatives were indigenous by ancestry, and most inherited farming or fishing as their occupation. We, her children, were sad to see Emak struggle beneath the burden of being a single parent. Though we had fewer snacks lately, we were reluctant to ask for anything, simply because we did not want to add to her worries. I often prayed that her services would be rewarded with the gardens of paradise in the hereafter, a place of a million eternal blessings. Whenever I had the chance to sit beside her, I sometimes held and stroked her hands. If necessary, I massaged them. I felt that her palms were rough, like those of a construction laborer. They were calloused. Her face was slowly wrinkling and growing dull. Perhaps it was because she was too often exposed to the sun, wore no makeup, and carried too many worries. Then that gentle gaze, the look that revealed her deep longing for the powerful man who had left her, would often appear while she rested before bed.
In the midst of our conversations, Emak often advised us:
"Children, all of you must study hard. If you can, go to college. Don't be like Emak. May Allah make your path easy. And never place your hopes in people, because you will surely be disappointed."
She paused to catch her breath. Then she continued: "Forgive Emak and Bapak, who may have fallen short in raising and educating you. But Emak's prayers have never stopped, and may they always accompany your steps until you become noble people blessed by Allah."
Was that her hope for us? I locked it away in the deepest recesses of my heart. As I said amen, I murmured inwardly, Allah, help me make her happy...***