Hope, I realized, wasn't a magic wand that toppled prison walls. It was more like a small flashlight I'd found in the darkness of my cell. Its dim beam couldn't shatter the sturdy walls of Father's ultimatum or dissolve the "Al-Izzah" pesantren brochure that lay on my desk like a gravestone of finality. The neighbors' whispers—"Rasyid botched the adhan, must lack faith"—still hissed like the night breeze.
But the small flashlight from the Readers' Circle at Jetty 5 had changed everything. It illuminated fine cracks in the prison walls, casting patterns of light and shadow I hadn't seen before. The prison still confined me, but my eyes were open. I could count the bricks, feel the thickness of the iron bars, and begin searching for the weakest point.
Mapping the Battlefield: Two Columns and a Dragon's Lair
The night after my first meeting at the Readers' Circle, for the first time in weeks, I didn't want to sleep to escape. The restlessness wasn't cold despair anymore but a simmering, hot energy demanding release.
Under the glow of my study lamp, I pulled out my secret notebook. Its worn, oil-stained cover felt familiar in my hands. But tonight, its purpose was different. Tonight, I would wage war.
I opened a fresh page. At the top, with a mechanical pencil gripped tightly like a general's baton, I pressed hard, carving bold capitals:
INNER WAR MAP
With an old metal ruler "borrowed" from Father's workshop, I divided the page into two neat columns—a symbolic act, using a tool from his world to draw my own. The left column I titled **PATH OF INHERITANCE: AL-IZZAH PESANTREN**. The right, with bolder letters: **PATH OF DISCOVERY: SMK TEKNIK NEGERI 1**.
Under "Pesantren," I listed the narratives bombarded into my ears:
- Future Secured (Worldly & Eternal)
- Becoming a 'Righteous' & Respected Person
- Making the Family Proud
Then, with a red-inked pen—color of blood, of warning—I scrawled my soul's tremors beneath:
- Imprisoned (Rigid schedules, stiff uniforms)
- Alien (Empty verses on my tongue)
- Performance (Always the 'perfect Muhammad Rasyid')
- Graveyard of Creativity (These hands can only hold books, not wrenches)
The "SMK Teknik" column filled with a different pulse, deeper, calmer:
- Sound of a Reviving Engine (The truest music)
- Satisfaction of Dirty Hands (Creating something tangible)
- Fixing the Broken (Logic & real solutions)
- Father's Smile in the Workshop (The last time he truly saw me, not his 'hopes')
Not forgetting, with the same red ink, I noted its dark shadows:
- Disappointing Father (The deepest wound)
- Seen as a Failure & Lowly (Social stigma)
- Family War (Me vs. Father, Mother vs. Father)
Staring at the two columns, a wild question struck. I slashed a diagonal line across the page like a sword. In the center, with green ink, I wrote:
ESSENTIAL QUESTIONS:
- What does 'success' mean to Rasyid?
- Can I be 'righteous' without being a santri?
- Why is questioning seen as betrayal?
This map turned the fog of war into a readable battlefield. I now saw the trenches of doubt and the fortress of dogma. At the dividing line, I wrote Iqbal's mantra in sky-blue ink: "CONFUSION IS THE MOST HONEST THING."
Investigating Father's Soul
The next day, I became an archaeologist in the ruins of my own home. The cold war with Father still froze the air, but now I studied his every move with precision.
Returning early from the workshop, Father's body seemed like an engine low on oil. He sat on the wooden porch chair, his eyes vacant, staring at his 1988 Honda GL 100. I watched his rough hands caress the fuel tank like stroking a child's head.
As Mother approached with a glass of tea, I crept closer, pretending to tie my shoelaces.
"Tired, Yah?" Mother's voice was gentle.
Father sighed heavily, his voice like a stuck piston. "Today… Pak Budi's engine broke down. Needed a new cylinder block. He cried, Bu. A factory worker's wage barely stretches…" He closed his eyes. "Reminds me of when… I couldn't pay Rasyid's school fees for a month."
My chest tightened. This was the key. His shame ran deeper than an oil well.
That night after dinner, as the Isya adhan echoed from the nearby surau, Father, reading the newspaper on the rattan chair, stood abruptly, grabbing his sarong and cap.
"Off to the surau," he said to Mother, then stepped out.
The silence that enveloped the house after his departure felt different—not oppressive, but opening a safe, private space. In that comfortable stillness, I found the courage to ask Mother, still sitting across from me.
"Bu…" I began softly. "Why does Father hate that I love machines? Why is he so afraid I'll end up like him?"
Mother's hands, tidying spools of thread into a plastic box, paused. She looked at me long, her gaze filled with unspoken sadness. "Your father doesn't hate machines, son. He hates their memories," she replied quietly. "He was better at them than you. Check the old cabinet in the storage room. There's a brown cardboard folder of his. Maybe you'll understand."
Driven by curiosity, I headed to the storage room. In the weathered wooden cabinet, under a pile of old tablecloths, my hand found the folder Mother mentioned. I opened it. Inside lay yellowing sheets of tracing paper—detailed technical drawings: a cross-section of a cylinder block, a gearbox design, complete with precise calculations. The handwriting in the bottom right corner was unmistakable: *Ahmad Sudirman, 1995*. One drawing even bore a stamp: *2nd Place, Inter-High School Technical Design Competition*.
Flipping through the papers, I noticed something odd. In one corner of the folder, there was a rough tear, as if a sheet had been forcibly ripped out.
I brought the folder back to Mother. "This… why's there a tear, Bu?"
Mother sighed, as if reopening an old wound. "Your father never told you, did he? Your grandfather deeply admired a great scholar from East Java, Kiai Muhammad Rasyid. He wasn't just known for piety but as a respected modern thinker. Your grandfather often listened to his sermons on the radio and collected his writings."
"When your father showed extraordinary talent in machines," she continued, "Grandfather was furious. He thought it a lowly job, without dignity. The breaking point came when your father won a technical school scholarship. Grandfather tore up the letter, saying, 'I prayed to God for descendants with minds as brilliant as Kiai Rasyid, but you chose to be an oil-stained mechanic!'"
Mother looked at me sadly. "Since then, your father buried his dreams. So when you were born, son… he gave you that name. Muhammad Rasyid. And he vowed, if he had the means, he'd send his child to that Kiai's pesantren in East Java. It's his way… his way of atoning for his guilt toward Grandfather. His way of proving he could fulfill a dream he once destroyed. It's not about hating machines, Yid. It's about wounds and dignity."
The puzzle was complete. Father's ultimatum wasn't just about religion. It was about inherited trauma.
In my room, I stared at his technical drawings, proof of his buried passion. My view of him shifted entirely. I wasn't fighting an angry tyrant anymore. I was preparing to face a wounded artist.
This new understanding made me realize: to speak to someone like that, to heal wounds and defeat the ghosts of his past, conviction and feelings alone wouldn't suffice. I had to speak his language, the language of the workshop: data, facts, concrete evidence.
I grabbed my notebook, opening it to the "Inner War Map" I'd filled with confusion. The map now felt incomplete. With resolve, I took my pencil and wrote a new mission under the "PATH OF DISCOVERY" column:
MISSION: GATHER DATA WEAPONS.
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