My name is Muhammad Rasyid. My parents gave me that name as a prayer. In return, I spent my teenage years questioning it. I was born and raised in Balikpapan, East Kalimantan—not in a tidy housing complex with wide streets, but in a narrow, familiar alley, fragile yet full of life. Our wooden house stood among small food stalls, a motorcycle repair shop, and the call to prayer from a surau, a small prayer house just two doors down from where we lived.
In that alley, I grew up to the hum of passing motorbikes, the clink of glasses from the neighboring warung, and the scent of fried snacks lingering in the air. The alley felt like its own little world. It was barely wide enough for a single motorbike to pass. If two met, one had to yield, pulling over to the side in front of someone's house. The asphalt was cracked everywhere. Every rainy season, puddles would form in front of Pak Rusli's house, the lowest in the alley, creating a temporary mirror that reflected how fragile the ground beneath us was. I often stared at those cracks in the asphalt, like the path of my life moving forward without a map or compass, simply following a road already laid out by others.
Strangely, I always felt safe there—not because of sturdy walls, but because everyone knew each other. That care was real. Like when Bu Siti from the warung suddenly handed me a pack of cooked food, saying, "Here, Yid, for home." The nickname "Yid" felt more natural on their lips. The grand name "Muhammad" seemed out of place in our alley, amidst the smell of diesel Father brought home and the bursts of our laughter. Perhaps it was in that contrast that I began to hold my first unvoiced questions. When a neighbor fell ill, warm porridge or homemade herbal drinks from the mothers would arrive. When there was a celebration, the whole alley pitched in together. That's why I never truly wanted to leave. That narrow alley, that wooden house, had become part of my breath.
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The Ulin Wood House
Our home—if I can call it that—was a structure of ulin wood, a sturdy ironwood that had stood for decades. The paint was peeling, especially on the walls exposed to the rain. The floorboards creaked softly underfoot. In the dry season, the gaps between them widened, and tiny mice would scurry beneath, their faint squeaks like a strange little nighttime song that sometimes kept me awake.
The roof was made of corrugated tin. When it rained, it sounded like a gamelan played by a madman: loud and chaotic, yet somehow soothing over time. From my thin mattress, I'd listen to that noisy music, imagining the quiet luxury of a tiled roof like my friend's house.
The wooden walls of our home were a natural dark brown, marked with the scribbles of us four siblings. There were Sari's crayon drawings of her dream house, Putri's tiny fingerprints from when she was little, and Indra's scratches from playing ball. Mother never got upset. "This is a living house," she'd say with a smile, "not a museum."
Our home had only two rooms: one for Father and Mother, and one for the four of us kids. There were no fancy wardrobes—our clothes hung on nails hammered into the walls, simple hooks for both shirts and unspoken hopes. The mattresses were thin, the bedsheets faded from countless washes. Yet there was a warmth that never faded, peaking just before Maghrib when Father came home from work. That warmth didn't come from conversation but from the sacred routine of his return: the familiar roar of his GL motorcycle, recognizable from the end of the alley; the heavy tread of his boots on the wooden floor; and the faint smell of oil and diesel as he stepped inside. He didn't talk much, usually heading straight to the back to clean up, but his weary presence—the fact that he returned whole—made our crowded evenings feel complete and safe.
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Family
As the eldest, I had three younger siblings, each bringing their own color to my life.
Sari, the quiet one who spoke through her drawings. Her long, slightly wavy hair and big eyes, like Mother's, would catch my gaze as she scribbled on scraps of paper with her worn-out pencil. Her drawings were always the same: grand houses with sprawling gardens. "Why always houses?" I asked once. She just smiled, "They're nice, Kak." But I knew they were her unspoken dreams. She kept all her drawings neatly in an old shoebox under our bed. "I'll show them off when I'm an architect," she whispered one night, her voice soft but her eyes sparkling. Shy in public, she'd chatter endlessly like a sparrow when she felt safe.
Indra, the ball of energy who was my living mirror. His round face was just like Father's, his skin dark from never staying still indoors. His hair? Always a mess, even five minutes after Mother combed it. He was my hyperactive shadow: when I read a book, he'd sit beside me, "reading" his comic upside down; when I swept the floor, he'd offer his little broom, making it dirtier instead. But his spirit was like the morning sun: always rising brightly, no matter how tired I felt.
Putri, the youngest, who turned us all into servants of her tiny kingdom. Not yet five, she already had a mind of her own: crying every time Father came home because she hated the smell of diesel on his uniform, yet refusing to let go of her tattered cloth doll, handmade by Mother. "Neng will be sad," she'd say, eyes welling up, whenever Mother tried to wash it. She slept with her thumb in her mouth and hair sticking up like a late-rising porcupine—a sight that always made us smile in the morning.
They were the reason I learned that yielding doesn't mean losing.
When I was still in elementary school, one night I asked Mother as she sewed under the dim neon light, "Why did you name me Muhammad Rasyid?"
Her sewing machine paused for a moment. She looked at me with her gentle smile. "It's a good name, isn't it?" she said briefly. "Your father chose it."
Then she resumed sewing, the needle moving as fast as a heartbeat. Her answer didn't answer anything, but it opened up more questions in my mind: Why Father's choice? And why did Mother seem to dodge the question?
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Father – Pak Sudirman
My father, Pak Sudirman, worked as a heavy machinery mechanic at Kariangau Port. He stood about 175 cm tall, but he seemed shorter because his back had begun to hunch—a result of years leaning under container trucks or half-buried in malfunctioning engines. His skin was dark, not just from Kalimantan's scorching sun but from the oil and diesel that seemed to seep into his pores. His short-cropped hair was starting to gray, though he was only 42—a sign of exhaustion that came too soon.
His face was stern yet weary. His small eyes were sharp, with a growing heaviness of fatigue. His thin lips rarely curved into a wide smile; when they did, it often felt forced. One of his molars was missing, a scar from a minor accident long ago.
Father came home every day, right on time after his shift ended. His body smelled of diesel, his eyes red from exhaustion, but he never missed a day. His salary covered our daily meals and school fees. To keep the kitchen running and meet other needs, Mother worked as a seamstress. In our alley, we were known as a hardworking family—not in want, but never in excess.
What I remember most is how he drank his coffee. Every morning before work, or after a long trip, he'd brew a thick black coffee with brown sugar. He sipped it slowly, staring ahead with empty eyes. Not sad, not happy… just empty. Like someone wrestling with thoughts too heavy to voice.
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Mother – Bu Nurlina
My mother, Bu Nurlina, was a home seamstress. She stood about 155 cm, her body neither thin nor heavy. Her skin was pale with a yellowish tint, her cheeks always rosy even without powder. Her shoulder-length hair was black with brown tips, singed by the sun.
Her face was beautiful in a simple way. Her big eyes had long lashes, her nose was sharp, and her lips naturally red. Her smile was warm and genuine, putting anyone at ease. Her hands were soft but firm, her fingers nimble, her nails always short and clean.
She was patient and resilient, sewing from afternoon till late at night, sometimes falling asleep at her machine while a small Bluetooth speaker played religious talks in the kitchen. The sound of her sewing machine was my lullaby: "tak-tak-tak-tak," rhythmic and repetitive, from dusk to night.
She sang softly as she sewed, old songs taught by her grandmother—sometimes religious, sometimes Malay tunes I barely understood. Her voice was sweet, though she'd never studied singing. When she sang, the whole house felt warm.
Her clothes were simple: dark-colored dresses or tunics. She said dark colors hid dirt and wear. She wore no jewelry except her wedding ring, a white metal band now slightly tarnished.
What amazed me was her patience. She never got angry, even when we were fussy. If I came home with a dirty uniform, she'd just say, "Try to be more careful next time." When Sari cried over homework, Mother would sit beside her, helping slowly with her gentle voice.
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My Classroom
My classroom was on the second floor, facing the main road. Through the dusty window, I could see cargo trucks passing by—sometimes one of them was Father's. Since early elementary school, around seven or eight years old, I'd daydream watching those trucks speed past. I imagined myself driving away, leaving everything behind, heading somewhere beyond the horizon to find my own path.
The desks were old wooden ones, long enough for two students. The blackboard was just that—black, not a whiteboard like in elite schools. On the wall beside it hung faded photos of the President and Vice President.
I wasn't the smartest student, but I tried not to disappoint. My grades were average—never outstanding, never failing. I liked Indonesian and Social Studies, but Math and Science weren't my favorites. Still, I always did my homework and never cheated on tests.
School was where I first felt social differences. Some friends had big allowances, buying expensive snacks. Some were picked up in cars. Some always had new, neat clothes.
Thankfully, the teachers treated us all fairly. But sometimes, those differences stung. One day during break, I sat at my desk with my packed lunch of rice and tempeh. Budi, whose father was a city businessman and who was often picked up in a shiny new car, approached me, holding two chocolate bars. He glanced at my lunch. "Wow, Yid, you're so diligent, bringing your own food," he said. His tone sounded casual, but a few friends nearby snickered. I looked down, pretending to focus on my food, though my ears burned. After school, that sting lingered, making me wonder why friendships felt so complicated. Amid the pile of textbooks and the chatter of classmates, my head was often filled with questions I couldn't voice.
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Reciting at the Surau
As I neared the end of elementary school, around ten or eleven years old, I'd go to Surau Al-Hikmah after school to recite the Qur'an. The surau wasn't large—just a simple concrete building with a tin roof and cool ceramic floors. Inside was a small pulpit and a well-worn, large Qur'an used by many hands.
The walls were adorned with Qur'anic verses written in white paint on a green background. In the right corner hung a handwritten prayer schedule on cardboard, marked with a marker.
The prayer rugs were plentiful but thin, some frayed at the edges. The scent of eucalyptus oil and camphor greeted me every time I entered. The ceiling fan whirred softly, accompanying the voices of students memorizing short surahs.
My teacher, Ustaz Hasan, was an elderly man in his sixties. His neatly trimmed white beard framed a medium build, thin but upright. His dark skin bore wrinkles that told of a long life.
His eyes were small but sharp, and when he smiled, they smiled too. He always wore a white or cream-colored koko shirt, a sarong tied like pants, and a black cap that never left his head. His hands were soft but firm, with long fingers.
His voice wasn't loud but deep. When he spoke, everyone fell silent to listen. He never compared his students. "What matters is intention and effort," he said one afternoon. "God sees the process, not the result."
But the doubts growing in my heart began to affect my focus during recitation. I was caught daydreaming a few times, and once, I arrived late. At the next session, after recitation ended, Ustaz Hasan called me over. His face wasn't angry, but his gaze was firm. "Muhammad Rasyid, you've been late to recitation lately. Pay attention to your focus when studying. Don't let good intentions lose to stray thoughts." Amid chanting verses, my mind sometimes wandered, wondering if all this memorization truly touched my heart or just lingered on my tongue.
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Mother's Sewing Corner
In the afternoons, after recitation, I'd sometimes help Mother with her sewing: threading needles, sorting fabric, or just sitting beside her, chatting.
Mother's sewing corner was just a section of the living room, partitioned by a thin cloth. There stood an old wooden sewing table with small drawers for threads and sewing supplies.
I loved sitting beside her, listening to the hum of the sewing machine as her skilled hands guided the fabric. Her movements were smooth yet precise, like a dance. Colorful fabrics transformed into dresses, skirts, or shirts—a magic I never tired of watching.
She'd talk as she sewed—about neighbors ordering clothes, rising fabric prices, or plans to shop at the market tomorrow. Amid those stories, I often wondered: Did Mother ever feel the emptiness I did? Did she ever question this routine?
"You should learn to sew too, Yid," she said one afternoon, her hands never stopping. "It might come in handy someday."
I tried, but my hands weren't as deft as hers. My stitches were uneven, and the thread often tangled. Using the sewing machine, I was always scared of pricking my finger.
Mother laughed softly at my frustration. "Patience, Yid. Everything takes practice. I was like this too at first."
She had a special plastic box with compartments for her threads, organized by color: pink, blue, green, yellow, black, white, and more. Looking at it was like seeing a neatly arranged rainbow.
Besides threads, Mother collected buttons—big ones, small ones, plastic, wooden, metal—all stored in little jars. Sometimes, I'd play with them, sorting them by color or size.
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Daily Routine
I grew up with the notion that life was about following rules. Discipline, respect, obedience. Wake up early, go to school, recite, study, sleep. Repeat the next day. And so it went, day after day.
I followed it all without questioning—not out of force, but because everyone around me lived the same way. Life was about not troubling others, about being a "good kid."
But sometimes I wondered: What does "good kid" mean? Was it enough to not burden my parents? To get good grades? To own a car? Or just to avoid causing trouble?
Since I was little, my life followed the same line: wake before dawn, help Mother sweep or hang laundry, then go to school in a uniform sometimes a bit too small but always neatly ironed. I did it all automatically, like a puppet on strings, often without feeling truly alive.
Mother always ironed my uniform at night, watching Korean dramas on TV. "We may not be rich," she'd say, "but we must stay neat. Don't let others look down on us."
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The First Question
My first doubt didn't come from something big. It came from a small quote in my Islamic Education workbook.
I was doing homework one afternoon, sitting on the cool wooden floor with the book open before me. The sound of motorbike exhausts occasionally broke the silence. A restless feeling had been settling in me for a while, like a pebble in my shoe—irritating but hard to pinpoint. I was probably twelve or thirteen, just starting junior high. On page 32, a sentence caught my eye:
"Total submission to God without questioning."
I read it over and over, each time feeling a jolt in my chest. Not because it was beautiful, but because I didn't fully understand it—and that haunted me. The words spun in my head, clashing with every bit of logic and curiosity I'd felt. What did total submission mean? Did it mean I had to believe without any room to think? Isn't questioning how we learn, how we grow? Isn't curiosity a gift, not a sin? That sentence lodged in my mind like a tiny needle, pricking at me, creating an unease I couldn't shake.
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Trying to Ask
The next day, I tried talking to Rizki, my desk mate. He was a good guy, but his answers were always the same ones I'd heard before.
"Riz, why do we always have to follow what people say? Sometimes I want to know why it has to be this way, not that way," I said quietly. The sound of him chewing gum was loud, contrasting with the turmoil in my mind.
He looked at me like I was something strange—not just odd, but a little disgusting. "Don't think weird thoughts, Yid. You'll just confuse yourself if you question too much," he said, chomping his gum. Deni, sitting behind us, overheard and chimed in, "Yid, you okay? What we're taught is already right. Why look for something else?" Their words felt like a towering wall, leaving me alone with the questions in my head.
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A Documentary That Changed Me
My first real encounter with doubt came while watching a YouTube documentary. The title wasn't important. What mattered was a street kid speaking to the camera. This happened amidst the noisy whir of a warnet's fan and the strong smell of instant noodles, when I was about thirteen or fourteen.
He hadn't gone to high school. He wore no suit or tie. But his words pierced deeper than any sermon I'd ever heard.
"God is here," he said, pointing to his chest. "I don't need a big mosque to find God."
I wrote that quote in the corner of my old notebook, in blue ink, over and over until the letters nearly faded. The smell of old paper filled my senses as I wrote, accompanied by the faint scratch of my pen. I also wrote about my own feelings—about the doubts starting to grow, the unanswered questions, the emptiness that grew each day, as if part of me hadn't found its place; a void born from monotonous routines, from answers that never truly answered, and from a path I'd never chosen myself. I wrote honestly, hiding nothing, because there, behind the strokes of my pen, I could be my true self.
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Secret Writings
Those writings became my secret companions. I didn't always carry the notebook around, only reading or writing in it during certain moments—when I felt confused or sad.
Sometimes I added new thoughts. Sometimes I just reread what was there.
"I walk the path, but my heart feels empty."
"Where is God, really?"
"Where am I, really?"
I never told anyone about the notebook—not Mother, not Father, not my recitation teacher. I was afraid. Afraid of being misunderstood. Afraid of being seen as disobedient. Afraid of being called an arrogant kid.
But I was also afraid to stop questioning. Because if I stopped, it felt like dying slowly.
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The Discovery of the Secret Notebook
One day, I brought the notebook to school because I had a new idea to jot down during break. But somehow, it slipped out of my bag while I was tidying my desk after school, mixed up with my textbooks. I only realized it the next day. When I returned to class, Ustaz Hadi, our religion teacher, stood by my desk, holding the notebook. His usually calm eyes now looked at me with a more serious gaze. "Rasyid, is this yours?" he asked softly, but his voice carried weight. He opened a page with my writing. "The contents of this… we need to talk about it. Come see me in the teachers' room after school."
The school corridor felt longer than usual, filled with invisible whispers creeping along the walls. Those whispers seemed to mock and judge every forbidden thought I'd written. Each step to the teachers' room felt like dragging a thousand stones, my palms slick with cold sweat—not from heat, but from a choking fear. Time crawled, as if holding its breath with me. I knew this was coming, but the fear was real. Was this the end of my search?
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A Spark of Hope
A few days later, still haunted by my meeting with Ustaz Hadi, I was in the quiet school library when I saw Dian, a classmate, reading a worn-out book. Dian was quiet, often alone, but her eyes always shone with a curiosity like mine. Her gaze felt nonjudgmental, as if she saw beyond the surface, like a small lighthouse in the fog surrounding me. Her presence there, among the stacks of books, felt like an unexpected breath of relief, a crack in my prison walls. We rarely spoke, but somehow, I sensed a shared understanding. Perhaps it was the desperation after my secret was exposed that made her calm, nonjudgmental presence feel like the only shelter in a storm.
As I turned to leave, Dian suddenly approached me. "Rasyid," she said softly, startling me. "I've seen you alone here a lot. Like I used to be." She handed me the book she'd been reading. "Try this. I got it from my discussion group. We talk about… weird things, but it feels freeing."
She gave a faint smile. "Maybe it can be your friend when you feel like you have no one."
The book was small, simple, with yellowing pages. Its cover was plain, but its contents were explosive. The title: *Man in the Mirror*.
It wasn't about religion, but about people—those who lived too long in others' shadows, forgetting their own faces. On the first page was a sentence that seemed written for me:
"Sometimes we're not lost; we just haven't chosen our own path yet."
That sentence was like a key. I read it slowly, taking notes, and for the first time, I felt my questions weren't wrong. They were part of a journey.
One cloudy afternoon, I walked home through the same narrow alley. Wooden houses lined the path, and the sound of mothers reciting at Surau Al-Hikmah echoed. I stopped by a small puddle. My chest felt full—not with weight, but with emotion.
I was no longer a child just wanting to be a "good kid." I didn't know where I was going, and that was scary. But it was even scarier to never start this journey.
And for the first time, I didn't feel alone.
My steps were small, hesitant, but they were mine.
And maybe, this was my first way of being honest—with the world and with myself.
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