The auditorium felt cold despite being packed. The old air conditioner rumbled behind the walls, struggling against the heat of dozens of bodies but sharp enough to pierce my trembling bones. The stage lights blazed, blinding me, reducing the judges at the front table to shadowy silhouettes—dark figures whose verdict would decide my fate today. Their faces were blurred, mere shadows with occasional glints of light reflecting off their glasses. The microphone in my hand felt heavy, not just physically, but like a metal rod channeling the weight of expectations pressing down on my shoulders. Its cold surface was now slick with the sweat pouring from my palms.
I took a deep breath, trying to calm the heartbeat pounding against my ribs as if it wanted to escape, thumping loudly in my ears, drowning out the faint murmur of the crowd below.
This was the district-wide adhan competition final for junior high schools. And here I was, teetering on the edge of failure, not driven by a calling or burning talent, but by a foolish bet I'd made with myself. I thought, if I could win this—prove I was worthy of this grand name—maybe Father would see me differently. Maybe the creases on his forehead would soften. Maybe the disappointment in his eyes, sharper when I was more eager in his workshop than at the surau, would ease. Most importantly, maybe after this victory, he'd believe I could be the "right kind of son" in his eyes. Maybe he'd loosen his grip. Maybe his gaze wouldn't feel like a judgment. Maybe I'd be allowed to just… breathe. A naive, desperate thought from a teenager caught between others' expectations and his own pulse.
The Stage and the Off-Key Note
When my name was called—"Next participant, Muhammad Rasyid!"—the announcer's voice boomed through the speakers, always creating a split-second pause in my chest. As if my heart stopped, choked by the weight of that name. The echo of "Muhammad Rasyid" sounded so grand, so vast, filling the auditorium, far surpassing the stiff figure I cut on stage. It wasn't just a name; it was a legacy, a historical burden of a great scholar meant to flow in my veins.
I glanced at the audience, my eyes immediately finding him in the front row. Father. Sitting upright, hands resting on his knees, his face taut like carved stone. His eyes stared straight at the stage, at me, unblinking. Among the teachers, I saw Ustaz Hadi nodding slightly, his eyes gleaming with confidence. Bu Santi offered an encouraging smile, but it felt like pity, making me even more nervous. At the judges' table, among the officials, sat Ustaz Hasan, his lips moving silently, perhaps praying for me.
Father's piercing gaze from the front, Ustaz Hadi's hopeful nod, Bu Santi's anxious smile, and Ustaz Hasan's silent prayers—it felt like my entire world had shrunk into this stifling room. They were all here, not to support me, but to judge. To judge if I was worthy of the name they all revered. My breath caught in my throat.
I began. "Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar…" My voice, usually steady and somewhat melodious during practice in the bathroom or the quiet surau, now quivered faintly. The tremor wasn't just in my vocal cords but spread through my body, making my knees nearly shake. I tried to focus on the meaning, the devotion Ustaz Hadi taught me, but all I could see was Father's tense face in the front row, the golden trophy that seemed to mock me, and my own shrinking figure on this stage.
Then it happened. Right at "Hayya 'alash shalah," where the note should have risen beautifully, a soulful call, my voice faltered. It broke, off-key, sounding jarring and dry. Just a fraction of a second, a false note that pierced the ears, but to me, it was a small earthquake crumbling the entire structure of my bet. Panic hit me like a sudden flood. My face burned. My own voice, echoing through the speakers, sounded foreign, wrong, like it belonged to someone else. I finished the rest of the adhan with ragged breaths, a forced voice, and an emptiness that cut deep into my bones.
But beneath the burning shame and cold void, there was something else. Something strange, something I didn't dare admit even to myself: a sliver of relief. As if the burden I'd been carrying unwillingly had suddenly lifted from my shoulders. This failure, in its painful way, felt like a validation of all my doubts. A cruel whisper, honest in its cruelty: *See? You're not meant for this path.*
The Smell of Oil and Heavy Silence
As I stepped off the stage, my legs felt stuffed with cotton. I kept my head down, avoiding everyone's eyes. I passed the row of teachers. Ustaz Hadi tried to touch my shoulder, but I subtly dodged. I faintly heard Bu Santi whispering to the teacher beside her. Her voice wasn't just heavy with regret but laced with genuine concern.
"Look at that boy's face…" she whispered. "It's not just nerves. He's carrying a heavy burden on his shoulders. Poor thing…"
The teacher beside her replied softly, "Such a pity, isn't it? With a name like Muhammad Rasyid, it should've been inspiring…"
I heard Bu Santi shake her head, as if disagreeing. "That might be the problem…" she muttered, almost inaudibly.
Those words, the use of my full name as a marker of failure, unlocked a floodgate. Suddenly, memories of every moment that name became a burden rushed in like a deluge. I remembered receiving my junior high student ID card. The paper felt cold… my full name printed in bold capitals: MUHAMMAD RASYID… A road sign I had to follow. I vividly recalled a sweltering afternoon when Dani, sitting behind me, poked my back. "Psst, Yid! After this, let's sneak off to the PlayStation rental. Come on!" But then he hesitated. "Uh, but… Yid, you sure? I mean, no offense, but… you're different." I so wanted to be just "Yid," skipping off to play games without a care. But I was trapped.
All of it felt painfully stark compared to the one place where my breath came easy, my hands moved freely, and my mind was calm: Father's workshop. The morning before this disastrous competition, as usual, I helped him. The fresh morning air mixed with the sharp smell of oil, gasoline, and metal. I stood beside him, handing over a size-14 wrench when he asked. I watched his calloused fingers, nails permanently blackened by oil and friction, move with agility, certainty, and quiet strength as he tightened bolts on an old motorcycle engine being restored. There was no doubt there. No note had to be perfect. Just metal meeting metal, the wrench fitting perfectly in hand, the satisfying *click* when a bolt locked into place. There was a tangible certainty, real work with immediate results, something I never found chanting verses in the prayer house under expectant gazes. My hands, dirty with oil and grease, felt more real, more honest, than my voice striving to sound holy and melodious on that stage. Here, among iron tools and the smell of engines, I wasn't "Muhammad Rasyid" the aspiring scholar; I was just Yid, the mechanic's son learning to understand machines. Here, Father sometimes gave a small smile, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction when a stubborn engine roared back to life. A smile I rarely saw at home. A smile that made me feel… enough.
Those memories—the sharp-edged student ID, Dani's hesitant look, the certainty of Father's fingers in the workshop, and finally, the off-key note—swirled wildly in my head during the walk home. I trailed a few steps behind Father. His back was straight, his steps heavy and quick. He didn't turn, didn't speak. The silence between us was thick, tangible, like an invisible wall. Each of his steps on the hot asphalt sounded like a judge's gavel.
An Ultimatum at the Coffee Table
No surprise, that night, the house felt quieter than usual. The TV in the living room, usually lively, sounded faint, as if afraid to disturb the oppressive silence. The aroma of Mother's cooking felt less inviting. I sat on a plastic chair by the living room window, pretending to focus on an open textbook in my lap, but not a single word sank in. My eyes kept darting to Father's bedroom door.
It took forever. Finally, the door opened. Father emerged, his face still carved with disappointment. He didn't head straight to the bathroom as usual but walked toward me. My legs under the table began to tremble on their own. He sat in the wooden chair across from me, the one he used for reading the morning paper. With slow, burdened movements, he set his favorite black coffee mug on the wooden table. The *clack* of the mug hitting the surface was loud, shattering the silence like a small hammer.
He didn't speak right away. He sipped his coffee slowly, his sharp eyes not looking at me but staring straight at the textbook in my lap. The silence stretched, taut like a wire pulled to its breaking point. I stopped breathing.
"Homework?" he asked finally. His voice was hoarse and flat.
I could only nod stiffly. "Done… Yah."
He let out a long sigh, not from exhaustion but from deep, heavy disappointment. He set his mug down again, softer this time, more final.
"I think it's time you got serious, Yid," he said. His voice was flat, without inflection, like reading a court ruling. "I spoke at length with a friend in East Java this afternoon. The pesantren, the one tied to the great scholar whose name we gave you," he emphasized "we," "closes registration next month." He looked at me directly. "I've sent all the required photocopies. All that's left is for you to take the entrance test. Your prayers and effort in the competition today…" he paused, as if searching for the right words or holding something back, "…your prayers and effort showed you need more intensive guidance. That's the place for it."
My heart seemed to stop, then pounded like war drums in my ears. This wasn't a suggestion anymore. It wasn't a discussion. It was an ultimatum. A path already carved, waiting for me to walk it.
"There," he continued, his voice softening slightly but sounding even more terrifying, "with skilled teachers, your soul will be forged, shaped to be upright. You'll learn what's right and what's wrong, so you won't be confused anymore. You can become a true person, Yid. Like your name. Like our hopes."
I swallowed hard. It felt like swallowing gravel. My throat was dry and tight. All the words I wanted to say—about the smell of gasoline that calmed me, the satisfaction of a revived engine, the brochure for SMK Negeri 1's Automotive Engineering program hidden under my mattress, the vague dream of opening my own workshop someday—were stuck in my throat, trapped by fear and the crushed remnants of hope. My legs under the table trembled harder. I knew nodding now meant surrendering forever. Agreeing to be buried alive in the walls of a pesantren, in the label "Muhammad Rasyid" I never chose.
But this was more than losing the workshop or being forced into a uniform. It was a threat to the only freedom I'd just begun: the freedom to question myself. Dian's book, the scribbles in my secret notebook—all of it would be taken. The pesantren, with its discipline and singular truth, would be a taller wall, silencing the questions I'd just dared to voice in my notebook. This wasn't just about my future; it was about my soul, which had only just learned to breathe.
But to refuse? To defy Father?
My lips felt numb, as if locked. The air in the room grew thinner. I looked at Father's hands on the table, still bearing black oil stains between his nails, marks of his hard work raising me. Guilt and rebellion churned within me. With the last scraps of courage gathered from the depths of my soul, I opened my mouth. The voice that came out was faint, hoarse, barely audible, like a whisper of wind through a door crack.
"SMK… seems good too, Yah," I managed to say, my voice breaking at the end. "Automotive Engineering. Pak Didi says it has good job prospects…" I couldn't go on.
It wasn't a firm refusal. It wasn't an argument. It was just a whisper, a small suggestion floating in the air. But it was my first act of resistance. A feeble whisper launched against a grand plan, a towering fortress called "goodness" and "hope" that Father had built for years. A tiny stone hurled at a steel wall.
Father fell silent. For a long time. An eternity. The silence between us was heavy, dense, suffocating. His face didn't change, but his eyes narrowed slightly, as if digesting something foreign and bitter. His breath escaped slowly through his nose. He didn't get angry. He didn't shout. He said nothing. With a slow, almost ritualistic movement, he picked up his still-full coffee mug. He stood from his chair. The wood creaked softly. He looked at me for a moment, a deep, unreadable gaze filled with something that made my chest tight. Then, without a word, he turned and walked to his room. The door closed with a soft but final *click*.
From his silent reaction, from the silence more terrifying than any shout, from his final look that saw something broken, I knew. My feeble whisper, in his ears, must have sounded like a deafening explosion shaking the foundation of his beliefs. A small betrayal's blast.
An Argument Behind the Door
The night grew late. The darkness in my room felt deeper than usual. I lay down, eyes closed, pretending to sleep. My own heartbeat still echoed in my ears. Then, from behind the slightly open door, their voices slipped through from the kitchen. Mother's voice, usually calm, now trembled, holding something back.
"You're too hard on Rasyid, Yah," she said, her voice strained to keep from breaking. "He just lost the competition. His heart must be heavy. He's still a child, he needs time…"
Father's voice cut in, sharp and firm, like a hammer forging iron. "It's not about being hard, Bu. It's not about hard or soft. It's about responsibility! This is for his own good, his future! What do you want him to be if not a righteous person, a useful person, a respected person? A mechanic like me?" His voice rose, laced with hidden pain. "Look at me now! I work my bones off, hands dirty, barely earning enough for food and his schooling! I don't want him to struggle like this, Bu! I don't want him to be just a worker! I gave him that name for a reason!"
"There's nothing wrong with being a mechanic, Yah!" Mother shot back, her voice rising now, clearly holding back tears. "You're honest, hardworking, providing for our family with your own sweat. That's noble! What's wrong isn't being a mechanic, Yah! What's wrong is if our child isn't happy! If he's forced to be someone he's not! Did you hear his whisper? He mentioned SMK, Yah! Engineering! That might be his voice, his dream! Why won't we listen?"
"Happiness?" Father's voice was bitter, cynical. "Happiness comes later, Bu! After he's righteous! After he's established! SMK? Engineering? That's a shortcut! A path for people with no better options! He has a great name to uphold, Bu! Not to tarnish in a workshop!" His voice cracked slightly at the end. Then came the sound of a glass set down hard on the sink.
A heavy, dense silence followed. Then I heard Mother's voice, no longer raised but soft, filled with a painful tenderness.
"Your work at the workshop is honest, Yah," she whispered. "That work raised Rasyid and his siblings. Never, ever belittle your own sweat in front of your child."
After that, there was no more sound. Only a silence heavier than all the shouting.
A Prison Called Love
The tension behind the kitchen door felt real, like a thin thread stretched to its breaking point. And I knew I was the cause. I'd shattered this fragile peace with my failure and a whisper. A massive guilt washed over me, mixed with powerless anger. Why did my simple desire to be myself have to spark a fight? Why did "Muhammad Rasyid" have to be a prison?
Under the stifling blanket, I reached for the old notebook hidden beneath my mattress. I held it gently. On the back pages, among sketches of engines and random math formulas, were my past writings. With still-trembling fingers, I gripped my cheap mechanical pencil. On a new page, far from the world's eyes, I pressed the tip to the rough paper. I wrote, in large, shaky letters, pouring out my suffocating heart:
*What if I'd been born with another name? Ahmad? Budi? Anyone but Muhammad Rasyid. If I choose the wrong path, if I choose the workshop and oil, does that mean I'm betraying their prayers? Betraying the blood in my name? They say it's for my own good. But whose good are they really chasing? I hate that off-key note. But more than that, I hate the guilt for wanting something other than chanting the adhan. Father wants me to be righteous. But is being a mechanic wrong? Wrong because it's not holy? Wrong because it doesn't carry a great name? In the workshop, when an engine starts, I feel right. Right for myself. Isn't that enough?*
I closed the notebook hard, as if to lock all those unanswered questions inside. I hid it again behind the iron bars of my bedframe, under the mattress—my only hiding place. The darkness of the room felt like an embrace, but a cold one. The hardest part of all this, I realized as I stared at the dark ceiling, wasn't hatred. Not at all.
Father, with his rough hands and tired eyes, always brought home my favorite market snacks after work. He worked overtime to buy me new shoes when mine tore. He quietly fixed my bike's broken chain in the middle of the night so I could ride to school in the morning. Mother, who set aside grocery money to buy me sketchbooks because she knew I loved drawing engine designs, who massaged my head when I had a headache, who defended me when Father was upset over my poor math grades. Ustaz Hadi, who spent extra time coaching me on the adhan, patiently, without asking for payment. Ustaz Hasan, who always greeted me warmly at the surau, asking about school. They were all good people. People who, in their own ways, genuinely wanted the best for me. They loved the Muhammad Rasyid they envisioned, the Muhammad Rasyid they prayed for when my name was declared.
That was the problem. They weren't villains. They weren't monsters out to torment me. They *were* the system. A system of belief, tradition, expectation, and love that had been running for ages. A system that never came with a frightening face but in the form of Mother's warm embrace, Ustaz Hadi's wise advice, Father's hard work for my future, and Ustaz Hasan's proud smile when my name was called at the competition. A system built on the foundation of genuine love and sacred intentions. But that system was rigid. It had a mold, and I was expected to fit perfectly into the shape of "Muhammad Rasyid, the future scholar." Their love became walls. Their expectations became bars. Their good intentions became the lock.
A prison built from the finest materials: love and sincere hope. And I, Muhammad Rasyid, who failed to chant the adhan, who felt more at ease holding a wrench than a microphone, who whispered about SMK, didn't know how to escape this invisible prison. How do you fight love? How do you hurt good intentions? My small whisper felt like a sledgehammer, but the prison walls weren't even scratched. I just lay there in the darkness, listening to my own heartbeat, thinking of the great name that felt like a tombstone over a life I hadn't yet lived. The pesantren in East Java loomed large in the darkness, waiting. Next month. And me? I was still trapped in the void between the stage I'd failed and the workshop that might never be mine. My wrong bet had ended in a crushing defeat, and now, I had to face the real consequences.
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