That night, Laras couldn't sleep. Her room felt stifling, crowded with unspoken words. She'd been silenced in that air-conditioned room, her voice dismissed as childish philosophy. Anger with no outlet had festered into poison.
She rose from her bed, switching on her desk lamp. Her eyes fell on her sketchbook and charcoal pencil. Words? she thought bitterly. My words are silenced. They have podiums and loudspeakers. I have a pencil and paper. She knew she couldn't fix the system. But she refused to stay silent. I might not tear down the wall, she resolved, but I can leave a mark on it. A sign that not everyone agreed to be quiet.
With hands that no longer trembled, she began to draw. She knew the image: a symbol that captured everything she'd witnessed. She drew a sturdy auction gavel, labeled "ACHIEVEMENT & ACCREDITATION", raised high and poised to strike a fragile Merah Putih flag laid on an auction block. Around the flag, she added small fragments labeled "Honesty," "Dedication," and "Dignity."
Early the next morning, Laras arrived at school ahead of time, but she waited. Heart pounding, she waited until the first bell rang at seven, when students had entered their classrooms and the corridors were empty. That's when she moved swiftly. She posted photocopies of the "Auction Gavel" sketch in two places: one right in the center of the main bulletin board, and another on the flagpole with its still-broken rope. Then, she vanished back into her classroom.
The explosion happened exactly as she'd predicted: when the morning recess bell rang.
A crowd began to form in front of the bulletin board. Whispers spread like wildfire. Laras watched from afar, a corner of the canteen, observing her creation become the center of attention. She saw a group of younger students—including the ones who'd waved the Jolly Roger—pointing at the sketch with awe.
The commotion finally reached the school authorities. Soon after, Pak Anwar arrived, steps hurried, face stony. Without a word, he roughly tore the paper from the board, ripping it into tiny shreds. A few students murmured a soft "boooo," but quickly fell silent as Pak Anwar shot a sharp glare at the crowd.
The crowd dispersed, but the sketch's echo lingered.
Amid the flow of students, Mrs. Dian walked past her. They didn't speak. But for a fraction of a second, their eyes met. Mrs. Dian's gaze had lingered on those bold, angry charcoal lines just before they were ripped. She'd seen this style before, in the corner of a quiet student's notebook – a student whose eyes were always observing. A student she knew had clashed with the Principal yesterday over her idealism. Proof wasn't needed; her heart knew. In that brief look, Laras saw a flash of recognition and solidarity. A ghost of a smile, almost imperceptible, touched Mrs. Dian's lips before she walked on.
Laras knew her message had landed. Her work had only lasted fifteen minutes, but she'd managed to pose a question in the place most afraid of questions.
An artwork can be torn. A voice can be silenced. But an idea, once cast into the air, can never be taken back. True independence might not be a yearly celebration with expensive flag ropes or lofty speeches. Perhaps true independence is the daily courage to keep asking: what are we sacrificing when we slap a price tag on the priceless? And in the grand auction called life, in whose hand does the gavel truly rest?