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Chapter 9 - Chapter 8: Pilgrimage of Conviction

SCENE 1: A DIFFERENT MORNING

Location: Rasyid's Room, 5:30 AM WITA

The final page of my notebook held the pro-con table I'd studied repeatedly. The numbers lined up neatly: SMK Negeri 1 job placement rate (87% employed immediately), tuition costs, practice equipment list. But one red-inked sentence stood out:

*"What are you truly searching for, Rasyid?"*

I stared at my room's wall. A faded Valentino Rossi poster from junior high hung beside a "Allah Hears All" calligraphy. They felt like two poles that never met.

"Son, breakfast!" Mother's voice from the kitchen broke my reverie. I hid the data folder under my pillow.

"Coming, Bu."

At the dining table, Father's bitter coffee aroma mingled with Mother's mung bean porridge.

"Why the full uniform? What's up?" Father asked, eyes fixed on his newspaper.

"Group project at a friend's after school," I replied, staring at my spoon. My tongue was getting better at lying.

As I left the table to get ready, I felt Mother's gaze on my back. When I kissed her hand by the door, I saw her forehead crease with worry. She knew I was hiding something. But as always, her silence was a trust stronger than any reprimand.

Stepping out of the house, the feeling hit me. Part of me was excited, but another part was cloaked in doubt, haunted by Father's view of SMK kids as rough, futureless, and far from faith.

SCENE 2: AN UNREAD PATH

Location: Angkot Stop, 6:15 AM WITA

The K1 angkot to school passed by without me. I waited for number 7, bound for Sepinggan, near SMK Negeri 1. My old Nokia vibrated. A message from Dian:

"Tomorrow we're discussing *Letters of Faith*. Coming?" I didn't reply right away. My thumb typed "yes," then deleted it. Changed it to "inshaAllah," then erased that too. Finally, I sent: "Got something important today." In my pocket were three items:

- A month's pocket money, secretly saved

- An SMK registration form from the counseling teacher

- A Quranic verse (Ar-Ra'd:11) Mother slipped into my bag this morning

SCENE 3: THE SCHOOL GATE

Location: SMK Negeri 1 Entrance, 7:30 AM WITA

Morning drizzle dampened the school sign: "SMK Negeri 1—Shaping Job-Ready Generations." I watched students enter—some on motorbikes, others dropped off by parents. Their white-gray uniforms differed from my school's white-navy blue.

"Just looking or registering, kid?" a voice from a warung near the gate startled me.

"Just… looking around, Pak," I replied.

The man squinted, studying my face. "You look familiar… You're Pak Sudirman's son, the mechanic from Karang Jati, aren't you?"

My heart stopped. I could only nod faintly.

"Knew it!" he exclaimed, friendlier now. "See your dad at Al-Hikmah surau all the time. Devout man."

My heart sank. Even here, in this foreign territory I hoped would be my refuge, I couldn't escape. Not from Father's name, but from his pious reputation, clinging like a shadow.

SCENE 4: TEMPLE OF MACHINES

Location: SMK Automotive Workshop, 8:00 AM WITA

Stepping inside, a new world unfolded. The workshop, vast as a soccer field, was filled with dozens of dismantled motorcycles and cars. The sound of dripping oil from exhausts, clanging metal, and a teacher's shouted instructions:

"Pressure's down 5 PSI! Check the compression again!"

I saw students gathered around a diesel engine. A young teacher—curly hair, hands scarred—explained with enthusiasm:

"This isn't theory. Mess up the timing belt, and the engine sounds like it's possessed!"

Laughter erupted. The atmosphere was relaxed yet focused.

It was the most beautiful scene I'd ever witnessed. But in the back of my mind, Father's voice hissed: *"Look, a bunch of future mechanics. This is what you want for your future?"* I swallowed hard, trying to banish it.

To distract myself, I forced my eyes to focus on one detail. They landed on a hijab-wearing female student soldering an ECU's wires. Her hands were nimble, her eyes focused.

"What pesantren would let a girl touch a soldering iron?" I thought.

During a break, I gathered the courage to approach the teacher.

"Excuse me, Pak. Can I… look around?"

"Oh, prospective student? Where from?"

"I'm in 9th grade at SMPN 6, but…"

"But unsure where to go next?" he finished my sentence. "I'm Pak Arif. Come, I'll show you."

SCENE 5: LESSONS NOT FOUND IN SCRIPTURES

Location: Electrical Practice Room, 10:00 AM WITA

Pak Arif led me around: a computer room with engine simulators, racks of student competency certificates, a bulletin board with job openings from top workshops.

"Look at this," he said, pointing to an old motorcycle. "Last year's student project. 1990 engine, but we installed a modern injection system."

"Did it work, Pak?"

"Not at first. Took 17 tries to get the ECU to read the sensor." His eyes gleamed. "Failure is the best lesson module."

I was stunned. At home, one off-key adhan note was a lifelong shame to atone for. Here, 17 failures were a valuable lesson. My hand instinctively reached for my small notebook and pencil. Under my awe for Pak Arif, I scribbled a new formula that felt truer than any religious lesson I'd memorized: *17 failures ≠ sin*.

The Dhuhr adhan suddenly rang from the school's musala. Students rushed to perform wudu.

"We're praying now. Want to join?" Pak Arif asked.

I nodded. In the musala, I watched them pray with devotion—no rush, no judgmental glances at those still learning prayers.

SCENE 6: CONVERSATION AT THE COFFEE STALL

Location: Coffee Stall Near SMK, 1:00 PM WITA

I saw two students in dark blue wearpacks from the workshop, sipping iced tea. This was my chance. For five minutes, I stood near the stall's door, battling my fear. Finally, heart pounding, I approached their table.

"Excuse me, Mas," I said, my voice barely audible. They turned.

"Sorry to interrupt. I'm Rasyid, 9th grade," I said, bowing slightly. "I saw you in the workshop earlier. So cool. I'm… looking for info about this school."

The one with slightly long hair smiled. "Oh, you want to join? Sit down, kid."

I pulled a chair awkwardly. After ordering an iced tea, I mustered the courage to ask my prepared question. "Mas, if I may, after graduating here, do you work or study further?"

"I got accepted for an internship at an official Honda workshop. First salary's for college while working," the long-haired one answered.

The quieter one added, "My parents pushed me toward MA. But during my industry internship, my first paycheck was 3 million. Now they're actually proud."

I swallowed hard. That salary equaled six months of my pocket money.

SCENE 7: RETURN TO THE CIRCLE

Location: Readers' Circle Basecamp, 7:30 PM WITA

I walked back from the SMK area with mixed feelings. My heart was set, but my head spun thinking of the next step. I had data, testimonies, but no strategy. Then I remembered Dian's morning message about tonight's Readers' Circle meeting. I'd hesitated at first, but now I knew exactly what to do. I didn't need validation anymore. I needed a battle plan.

Stepping into the stilt house at Jetty 5, the same warm atmosphere greeted me. Dian, Iqbal, Rara, and others sat in a circle. Seeing me, Dian smiled—not a questioning smile, but a welcoming one, as if saying, "We've been waiting."

"How was your journey?" Iqbal asked calmly, giving me space to start.

For the first time, words flowed without force. I spoke—not with tears like my first visit, but with fiery enthusiasm. I told them everything about my SMK visit: the calming scent of oil, Pak Arif's "17 failures" lesson, the hijabed girl soldering, the devout adhan amid the workshop's clamor.

"I saw it, Kak," I said, my eyes probably gleaming unaware. "I saw I don't have to choose between the workshop and the musala." I opened my bag, pulling out my arsenal—brochure, salary data, registration form—spreading them on the mat.

"I know now. This is my path," I said firmly.

Iqbal picked up a sheet, studying it. "Light Vehicle Automotive Engineering. A solid, measured choice, Yid."

I nodded, but my enthusiasm dimmed. "But…" my voice cracked slightly. "None of this will matter. How do I explain it to Father?"

Rara, who'd listened intently, looked at me closely, as if seeing a subject through her camera lens.

"The light in your eyes when you spoke just now," she said softly, her tone less sharp than usual, "that's your main weapon, Yid. Never forget it."

She paused, letting her words sink in, then continued analytically. "But your father won't melt with that alone. You need more than passion to be heard. You need a plan."

"Think of every objection he might raise—cost, distance, what people will say. Prepare logical answers for all of them. Show him your solid plan, then show him the light in your eyes. Let your logic open the door, and your passion make him let you in."

Dian added:

"And don't forget—"

"Acknowledge his fears," Iqbal interjected. "Tell him you understand why he wants you to be an ustaz."

That night, for the first time, I slept without sketching in my notebook.

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