That night, in a dark room that felt tighter than a prison cell, lit only by pale moonlight slipping through the window's gap, I sat frozen on the cold floor, my back against the hard mattress. The "Al-Izzah" pesantren brochure lay like a corpse near my feet, the photos of smiling santri under the grand mosque's dome now sneering in the shadows—innocent faces mocking my failure.
I stared at it blankly, numb. Maybe Father was right. Maybe I was weak and lost. Despair wasn't just a feeling; it was a cold, viscous substance, drowning me, making my lungs ache. In that dark deluge, my vacant eyes drifted to my cluttered study desk. I remembered something hidden, a small secret in the bottom drawer. With what little strength I had left, I opened it. From behind a mess of papers, a faded blue cover peeked out. *Manusia Dalam Cermin* (*Man in the Mirror*). I took the book, flipping it open randomly. My eyes landed on a line underlined by Dian:
"The most lost person is not the one without a map, but the one who desperately follows someone else's."
The words didn't give me answers, but they gave me clarity. All this time, I'd been trying to read Father's map, my teachers' map, society's map. Maybe it was time to find someone who could help me read my own. Not Father, not Mother, not Ustaz. Someone neutral. Someone whose job was to listen.
I knew who I had to see tomorrow. I would muster the courage. Maybe this was another small step. A step toward the guidance counseling room. A step toward Pak Didi.
Leaping Off a Cliff
Deciding to see Pak Didi, the guidance counselor, wasn't just a big step—it felt like leaping off a cliff without knowing the depth of the chasm below. For two days, I rehearsed words in my head, assembling sentences like a complex engine—every part had to fit, no clatter of a whiny child's complaints. This had to sound like a serious consultation from a teenager thinking about his future, not a tantrum.
Armed with Mother's quiet support (a morning whisper, "Good luck, dear") and the growing pressure squeezing me like iron tongs, I walked to the counseling room at the end of the quiet school corridor during break. My footsteps echoed, as if judged by the corridor's walls, lined with murals of fake aspirations.
The room was small, sterilely neat, with colorful motivational posters that felt mocking. "Aim as High as the Sky!" one read, showing a child gazing at stars. I looked at it, imagining my stars as pistons moving in an engine block. Bitter irony.
Pak Didi, in a worn batik shirt, looked up from his papers. Seeing me, his usual friendly smile turned genuine, relieved.
"Ah, Rasyid. Come in, son. Have a seat." He cleared stacks of papers to make space, a small gesture that felt deeply meaningful. "I'm glad you finally came. Since our talk in the corridor, I'd hoped you'd stop by." He looked at me with full attention. "So, what can we discuss?"
My heart pounded like an overheating diesel engine. This was my second gamble, after the adhan competition's fatal off-key note. I took a deep breath, trying to steady my trembling hands.
"Well, Pak…" I began, my voice shaking despite my efforts. "I'm… really confused about my choices after junior high." The words felt stiff, forced.
I spilled everything. About Father, the ultimatum in the glossy Al-Izzah pesantren brochure—"a prestigious place, guarantees a future in this world and the hereafter," I said, mimicking Father's flat tone. Then, softer, more hesitant, as if confessing a sin, I spoke of my deep love for machines. The calming smell of oil, the unmatched satisfaction of reviving a dead engine in Father's workshop, the sketches of gears and pistons in my secret notebook. My vague dream of entering SMK Negeri 1's Automotive Engineering program. I framed it as a rational dilemma between two equally good, future-oriented paths. "I'm just confused, Pak, about which is more suitable," I said, closing my outpouring with a neutral tone, though my heart screamed that SMK was my soul's calling.
Pak Didi listened intently, arms crossed, nodding occasionally, his face showing genuine focus and sympathy. When I finished, silent, he leaned back in his creaking wooden chair, narrowing his eyes as if processing, then smiled. A warm, wise, experienced teacher's smile.
"Wow, Rasyid," he began, his voice soft and soothing. "Your father's intentions… they're so noble, son. Remarkable." He shook his head in admiration. "It shows how much he loves and cares for your future. Not just your worldly future, but especially your eternal one. He's thinking of the best for your soul's salvation and everlasting life. That's rare, son. Many parents today only think of the world." He paused, letting his praise hang.
My stomach twisted, cold. I'd anticipated this direction, but hearing it still stung.
"Here's the thing, son," he continued, leaning forward. "I've seen cases like this before. Smart kids with their own dreams, going against their parents. It doesn't end well, Rasyid. Not for the child, not for the parents." A flash of weariness and bitterness crossed his eyes. "You need to understand one key principle: parental blessings come first. Period. Especially in something as important as this, involving education, character, and faith."
His hands emphasized each point. "A pesantren like Al-Izzah is an excellent place, Rasyid. High discipline, strong religious education, moral shaping. It'll mold you into an outstanding, respected person. Worldly knowledge can be found anywhere, but religious education is life's foundation. Without a strong foundation, even the grandest building can collapse." He looked at me meaningfully.
I stared back, searching for a crack of understanding, a spark of acknowledgment for my struggle. But all I found was a thick wall painted with calm, normative, clichéd advice, as if pulled from a standard counseling manual. He was kind. He was sincere. No doubt. But he didn't hear me. He only heard the ideal scenario of a "dutiful child," of "absolute obedience," of a rigid value system. He saw "Muhammad Rasyid" who needed saving from a 'lowly' choice, not Rasyid, alive with his own dreams and fears.
"But, Pak…" I tried again, my voice louder, trying to breach that wall. "I… I don't feel suited for the pesantren world. It's… like it doesn't connect." I tried to describe the emptiness in the surau, the stiffness of reciting verses, the weight of my grand name.
Pak Didi nodded quickly, as if all too familiar with this complaint. "Feeling out of place, uncomfortable, even scared—that's normal, it's just an adjustment phase!" he replied smoothly, like reading from a brochure. "Every big change feels hard at first. But trust me, son, once you get through it, you'll be grateful. Your father has thought this through carefully. A parent's choice, especially a father who clearly loves you and considers your hereafter, is usually the best, made with far broader considerations than you realize." He looked at me deeply, his tone firm. "Maybe this is the path God has prepared for you. Trust the process, and your parents' wisdom. Don't doubt too much, Rasyid. Too many questions, too much resistance in your heart, and the path won't be blessed. Just be sincere. Surrender. God willing, it'll be made easy."
His words—"surrender," "sincere," "not blessed"—hung in the cramped room's air, feeling like new shackles. I looked down, unable to speak. The discussion was over. The counseling ended. I left the counseling room with heavy steps, feeling emptier and more alienated than when I entered. I'd sought a counselor, a neutral listener, a guide to read my compass. But I'd found another spokesperson—perhaps the gentlest—for the same system of walls that trapped me at home, in the surau, and now at school. These walls were just as sturdy, just as deaf to my true voice.
Rejection in Front of the Class
Failing to find an ally in the counseling room made me retreat further, like a snail into its cracked shell. I avoided eye contact with teachers, walked along the corridor's edges, and spent breaks alone in the library or a quiet corner of the field. Every glance seemed to carry judgment, every whisper gossip about "problematic Rasyid."
Days later, the tension peaked in an event that changed everything. As the History class neared its end, Bu Santi, my homeroom teacher, entered with firm steps, followed by Ustaz Hadi. His face beamed with conviction. The once-relaxed classroom turned tense.
"Quiet down, everyone," Bu Santi announced, her voice filling the room. "We have important news. Our school will send a representative to the city-level MTQ competition in two weeks. It's a prestigious event." She paused, her eyes scanning the room, then landing on me. "After long discussions with the teachers, especially Ustaz Hadi, we've decided to appoint Muhammad Rasyid from our class as the school's representative!"
*Thud!* My heart seemed to stop. Every eye in the class—dozens of pairs—turned to me. A humiliating heat spread from my neck to my face. This wasn't an offer. It wasn't an invitation. It was an appointment. A unilateral decision ignoring my wishes, my feelings, the emptiness I felt reciting verses.
I looked at Ustaz Hadi, and memories of our awkward meeting in the staff room weeks ago resurfaced. Back then, he'd looked at my notebook with sad eyes. "Rasyid," he'd said, "Doubt is Satan's door. I'll help you close it."
Now, in front of the class, Ustaz Hadi stepped forward. His smile was wide, but his eyes fixed on me with a savior's intensity. "…This is a golden opportunity! To bring pride to our school, of course." Then, more personally, he added, "And to strengthen your heart again, Yid. So it's no longer swayed by unnecessary thoughts. Think of this as redemption, not just for the adhan competition, but for everything."
"Show your true potential!" he urged, raising his eyebrows with hope.
The phrase "redemption for your failure at the adhan competition" felt like a hard slap in public. So that was it? I had to keep climbing onto stages, keep performing, keep being tested, until I finally became the "ideal Muhammad Rasyid" they wanted? Until when? Until I broke, or they were satisfied?
Something in me, long suppressed and squeezed, snapped. Not like glass, but like a lever breaking a drive chain. All the exhaustion, disgust, cornered feeling, and anger I'd bottled up for weeks—months—surged with startling force. Before I could think of the consequences, my feet moved. I stood. My chair screeched loudly against the floor, shattering the stunned classroom's silence. My voice came out, firmer, louder, clearer than I thought possible.
"Sorry, Pak. Sorry, Bu." I looked straight at Ustaz Hadi and Bu Santi, avoiding my classmates' stares. "I'm not willing."
Silence.
The room's atmosphere shifted drastically. The air froze. Bu Santi gasped, her eyes widening, her hand clutching the attendance book half-raised. Ustaz Hadi's proud face turned into a comical mask of confusion, then reddened, furrowed, and settled into deep, painful disappointment mixed with hidden anger. His lips trembled, searching for words.
"Rasyid?" Bu Santi finally broke the silence, her voice half-whispered, half-choked with shock and concern. "Why? What's the reason?"
I took a breath. My mind raced. I couldn't say the truth—that I was tired of pretending, that every recited verse now felt like heavy theater. I couldn't say I felt empty. I had to stay polite. "I… I'm not focused enough for any competition right now, Bu. Besides," I added, trying for a logical, hard-to-dispute reason, "the preparation takes a lot of time. I'm worried it'll interfere with my exam studies." My voice stayed flat, but inside, my heart pounded wildly.
It was my first public refusal. A clear, blatant act of defiance in front of the entire class and two authority figures. I felt the shockwave ripple through the room. Whispers buzzed like a disturbed beehive. From the row beside me, I faintly heard, "Crazy, refusing the MTQ? His adhan fail video hasn't even disappeared from the FB group."
Another voice, more cynical, chimed in, "Scared of losing again, that's why. Too afraid to redeem his shame."
Behind me, Dani sighed deeply, while in the corner, I saw Farid shake his head slowly with a staged look of disappointment. The label "weird" now felt branded on my forehead with a hot iron.
Amid the sea of judging and shocked stares, my eyes accidentally met Dian's. She sat quietly by the window, neither shocked nor whispering. Her face showed only a calm, attentive expression, as if she wasn't watching a drama but trying to understand an unspoken reason. That brief, wordless glance, lasting just a second, felt like a quiet island in a storm. She didn't offer help, but she offered something rarer: the absence of judgment.
Summons to the Staff Room
The school bell rang sharply, but to me, it sounded like a courtroom gavel. Sure enough, as I packed my bag, Dani nudged my arm. "Yid, Bu Santi and Ustaz Hadi want you in the staff room. Now."
The staff room felt stuffy, filled with stares. I stood before Bu Santi's desk, flanked by her and Ustaz Hadi, who sat with arms crossed. His usually kind face was now hard, but his eyes showed deep sadness more than anger.
"Muhammad Rasyid," Bu Santi began, her voice tinged with disappointment. "We don't understand your behavior earlier. This was a big opportunity. You didn't just refuse—you did it in front of your classmates. That was disrespectful."
Ustaz Hadi raised his hand slowly, cutting her off. He looked straight at me. "It's not about manners, Bu," he said softly, but his voice was heavy with meaning. "It's deeper than that."
He leaned forward. "Rasyid," he continued, addressing only me. "Weeks ago, we talked in this room. About your notebook. I thought you understood. I thought you knew I genuinely wanted to help you."
Bu Santi flinched, her eyes widening in shock. She looked between Ustaz Hadi and me. "Wait, Pak Hadi," she interrupted, her voice no longer disappointed but filled with genuine concern. "Notebook? Wavering thoughts? This… this isn't just about refusing a competition, is it?"
Ustaz Hadi glanced at her briefly, as if asserting his authority. "Exactly, Bu. And it's my responsibility as his religious teacher to set him straight," he said firmly, before focusing entirely on me.
His voice now sounded like a wounded man's. "The MTQ appointment… it wasn't just a competition, son. It was my way—our way, as teachers—to give you a path back. To fill your heart with the Quran so those wavering thoughts would vanish. But you… you rejected it outright. You threw away the medicine we offered."
I could only look down, no words able to escape my mouth.
"Are you unprepared, or unwilling?" Ustaz Hadi hissed. His disappointed tone turned to chilling firmness. "Fine, Rasyid. If you reject help and guidance, I have no other choice."
His gaze pierced me. His voice softened but cut deeper. "From now on, I'll consider you a student under special supervision. Every move and behavior of yours in this school will be monitored. Don't be surprised if your report card includes a special note about your attitude and moral guidance."
The threat felt colder and sharper than a blow. Not a fleeting report to Father, but a permanent verdict that would cling to me for the rest of my time at school. A formal stamp of "problematic."
I left the staff room with heavy steps. The school's walls, once a refuge, had become a transparent prison. There was nowhere left to hide.
Unexpected Ripples
After the classroom incident, the "problem child" label felt plastered on my forehead. Teachers looked at me with distance, and the school, once an escape, now felt like a new battlefield.
I carried that pressure home. That afternoon, as I entered, I heard Mother's voice from the living room.
"Indra, get ready. It's time for recitation at the surau," she said gently.
"I don't wanna go! I just wanna play soccer!" Indra shouted, his tone unusually sulky.
Father, reading the newspaper, slammed it down roughly. "You're daring to talk back now, huh? Who taught you that?!" he snapped at Indra.
His angry eyes then turned, stabbing at me as I arrived. He didn't need to know what happened at school. Indra's defiance was enough for him to find the source.
"And you!" he said, his voice lower but laced with pressure, aimed at me. "Since you started changing, your brother's following suit. Don't you dare set a bad example in this house."
I didn't answer, only lowered my head and hurried to my room, my heart pounding with fear. The weight on my shoulders doubled. I was no longer just a rebel—I was a corrupter.
Physical Walls
In my room, I collapsed onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling. The walls seemed to close in. My eyes caught a faint crack near my bed, branching like a dried riverbed. "You want out of here too, don't you?" I whispered to the crack.
Mother's Map
Despair drove me to distract myself. I remembered an unfinished art project. Looking for scissors in Mother's old vanity drawer, my hand brushed a book hidden under scraps of fabric. Its title was faded and yellowed: *Understanding the Changing Teenage Heart*. A parenting book from the '90s.
Heart pounding, I opened it. Pages were marked with yellow highlighter on chapter titles like "When Your Child Pulls Away," "Building Bridges of Communication," and "Supporting Your Child's Interests Without Opposing Your Husband." My heart ached. I wasn't the only one struggling in this house. Mother was too. In her silence, she was desperately searching for a map to understand my world.
The discovery didn't bring relief. Instead, it stabbed me with new guilt. I wasn't just a son fighting for his dreams; I'd become a source of pain for the person I loved most. My struggle had forced Mother into her own maze of confusion. This realization felt heavier than Father's anger or the teachers' rejection.
At the Edge of Despair
This new burden made my steps heavier than ever as I returned home. The weight on my shoulders multiplied. Home was a cold war zone. The surau was a courtroom. School was foreign soil. Every "right" path, aligned with expectations, I'd tried—and all were dead ends. The walls in every place seemed to speak in unison, echoing one message: *There's no other way for you, Muhammad Rasyid. Accept your fate.*
That night, in the dark, silent room, lit only by pale moonlight from the window, I sat on the floor, back against the bed. The Al-Izzah brochure lay on the floor, its smiling santri sneering in the dark. I stared at it numbly. Maybe Father was right. Maybe Pak Didi was right. Maybe Ustaz Hasan and the neighbors were right. Maybe I did need "more intensive guidance." Maybe I was weak, spoiled, ungrateful. Maybe I was lost, unable to see the 'goodness' being forced on me.
Despair felt like cold oil seeping slowly, soaking me, making me stiff, numb. The urge to give in, to fill out that form tomorrow morning, to end this battle, surged like a strong current. What was the point of fighting when the whole world conspired against you?
It felt like being cornered at the world's edge. Before me lay a tangible object representing the fate carved for me: the glossy pesantren brochure, its registration form already filled with my name. That path felt straight, clear, inevitable. A prison lined with gold.
I stood, trying to rise amid despair, my numb eyes wandering aimlessly, seeking something to hold onto in the tightening room. My gaze stopped at the slightly open desk drawer. Inside, among old papers, I saw a flash of faded blue. A worn book cover.
As my eyes fell on it, a memory slowly surfaced, piercing the fog of despair like dim light from afar. A memory of the quiet girl in the library. Dian. And the book she gave me… *Man in the Mirror*.
That's when I realized. I wasn't just facing one deadly fate. In that drawer, hidden, was another possibility. A question. A cracked mirror.
I no longer stood between crushing walls; I stood between two tangible objects. In the silent, dark room, as despair nearly swallowed me whole, that second object seemed to emit a faint glow. A final sign at the end of a dead-end corridor.
Slowly, my feet moved toward the desk, stepping over the brochure's lavish shadow. My trembling hand reached for the faded blue cover.
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