Morning Air After the Storm
The morning after the conversation under the tin roof felt strange, as if the earth's axis had shifted. The air in our house was no longer tense with the cold war's freezing grip, but it wasn't yet warmed by the casual chatter or Mother's laughter either. It was like parched land drenched by a sudden downpour after a long drought—wet, fragile, exuding the unfamiliar petrichor of damp dust and the uncertain promise of fertility. Every footstep echoed loudly in that fragile silence, as if the old wooden floorboards were holding their breath too.
At the dining table, Father was already there, sipping his thick brewed coffee from a heavy glass. Its steam curled slowly, dancing in the morning sunlight slipping through the window. His eyes stared blankly outside, fixed on the lingering raindrops clinging to banana leaves. But something was different in his gaze today—not the usual anger or disappointment, but a deep weariness, like a soldier just returned from battle. I sat across from him, stirring Mother's mung bean porridge, still steaming, its thick coconut milk aroma rich. Yet it tasted like ash in my mouth. The silence between us was no longer hostile, no longer charged with unspoken rage. Now, it was awkward. We were like two strangers stranded on the same island, having just agreed to a truce but unsure how to communicate, let alone fully make peace. Mother bustled in the kitchen, the scrape of her wok and wooden spoon the morning's soundtrack. Occasionally, from behind the door, I caught her hopeful glances at us—a silent gaze asking, *"Is this truly a new beginning?"*
As Father finished his coffee, he stood to leave for work. His movements were stiff, the muscles in his back taut under his faded checkered shirt. He passed me as usual, his steps heavy but sure on the wooden floor. But this time, his steps halted abruptly beside my chair. For a moment that felt endless, he stood still. I could sense his hesitation, almost tangible in the air, like a vibrating magnetic field. My breath caught. Then, without turning, without explanation, his large, calloused hand—witness to decades of dismantling engines and wielding tools—placed a cold, heavy metal object on the wooden table beside my porridge bowl. Its dull *clack* echoed in the silence.
It was his old caliper. Not a shiny digital one, but a classic analog, made of solid steel that had absorbed oil, sweat, and time. Its color was dulled to a grayish hue, its surface etched with fine scratches telling of countless precise measurements. Its spring was still tight, its jaws still sharp. I knew this tool. It wasn't just any tool; it was one of his finest and oldest precision instruments, always maintained with special oil and a clean rag. A sacred object in his workshop.
"You'll need this to learn," he said, his voice hoarse and flat, like an engine not yet warmed up. "Don't lose it." His words were brief, unadorned. No hug, no verbal apology, no smile. Just a factual statement.
Then he walked away, leaving the faint scent of kerosene and lubricant clinging to his blue work uniform. I stared at the caliper, then at Father's retreating back as he moved down the hallway and vanished through the front door. The steel's coldness seeped into my fingertips. But as my grip warmed it, I realized I was holding more than a measuring tool. This was a legacy. Not the burdensome legacy of a family name, nor the weight of imposed expectations. This was a legacy of trust. Trust delivered not in sweet words but in cold, honest, undeniable steel. A tool that spoke the language of logic and precision—a language we both understood. A truce had been signed, not on paper but on our dining table, with steel as its silent witness.
A Different Call
Days after that transformative workshop conversation, the frozen relationship between Father and me began to thaw. It wasn't dramatic, not suddenly warm. It was like ice melting under the rainy season's sun: slow, drop by drop, sometimes leaving cold puddles that made steps cautious. Still, the air we breathed together felt lighter, easier to inhale.
That Friday afternoon, the sky blended orange and soft purple. I sat on the front porch, leaning against a faded green-painted wooden post, savoring the cool cement floor and trying to digest a physics textbook. Crickets began their chorus, and the scent of damp earth from the morning's drizzle lingered. Suddenly, the wooden door creaked. Father stepped out, wearing his signature black-and-white checkered sarong and pristine white cap. His usually disheveled post-work hair was neatly combed.
"Yid," he called, his tone flat but no longer icy. Neutral. "Come with me to the surau." It wasn't the stifling command of old. It felt more like an awkward invitation, a bridge offered but not yet sturdy enough to cross confidently.
I was slightly startled. A direct invitation to the surau? This was new. But I nodded, closing my book. "Yes, Yah." Those simple words felt like the first stone I tossed to test the bridge's strength. This was a first step, perhaps the most significant, toward a lasting truce.
I followed him, keeping a step behind. His stride was steady, his sarong swishing softly. We passed through the familiar narrow alley between houses. Neighbors greeted us, their eyes surprised to see us together in a silence that wasn't tense. The Al-Hikmah surau was already bustling with early arrivals. Father headed to a small cupboard in the corner, pulling out a broom and sweeping the already clean marble floor, ensuring no dust or stray leaves remained. I helped, organizing the scattered sandals on the rack and straightening the small prayer rugs beside the pulpit. We worked in silence, but it was a productive silence, not oppressive. This pre-prayer ritual became our nonverbal language for now.
We finished just as the orange sunset turned fiery red, painting the sky with fading flames. The light slipped through the simple stained-glass windows, casting patterns on the floor. Other worshippers began arriving, filling the front rows, murmuring soft zikr like the evening breeze through leaves. The surau's air felt calm and reverent, unlike the tension I usually felt here, as if something was always watching, judging. Today, that tension evaporated, replaced by a quiet sense of involvement.
Just then, Pak Ismail, the regular muazin, hurried in through the side door, his face pale and weary, clutching his throat. He approached Father, one of the senior congregants he knew well.
"Sorry, Pak Sudirman," he said, his voice like sandpaper. "My voice is gone… like it's been scraped by sand. This cough won't quit. Can you find a replacement for the Maghrib adhan? I'm worried I can't project."
Father's face grew serious. His eyes scanned the room, searching for a substitute among the gathered worshippers—mostly elderly or young children. I knew he wouldn't step up. His voice was deep and heavy, not a muazin's. He was a follower, not a caller. Then his gaze stopped… on me. A wordless question shone in his dark eyes. No command. No voiced expectation. Just an urgent need.
I looked at Father, then at the small microphone standing alone by the pulpit, waiting. My heart suddenly pounded, hammering my ribs. But this time, it wasn't from panic or fear of Father's judgment. This wasn't a competition stage where I had to outshine Pak Ismail's melodious voice. It wasn't a test of faith I had to pass perfectly. There was nothing to prove to anyone, especially not to the shadow of Father that had haunted me.
It was just… a simple, fundamental need. A void to be filled. Someone had to call the souls to prayer. And for the first time, I felt I could do it—not because I was ordered or feared consequences, not to prove something. I could do it because I wanted to, because I felt capable of meeting that need. Though doubt still nested in my chest like a restless bird, though my faith wasn't the rock-solid certainty Father hoped for, perhaps still as fragile as grass swaying in the wind, I knew in my truest heart: this was the right step. A step I had to take.
A first step for myself, out of the mire of indecision that had kept me stuck. An effort to find my own note in this grand symphony.
I took a deep breath, filling my lungs with the cooling evening air. "Let me, Pak," I said, my voice steadier than I expected. It didn't waver.
I stepped toward the microphone. The metal stand's coldness felt real in my slightly damp palm. I closed my eyes briefly, seeking a calm center, then opened them, facing the qibla.
*Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar…*
My voice flowed out, not as loud or melodious as Pak Ismail's, but strong enough to fill the small room. This time, my mind didn't wander to Father's face in the crowd or imagine others' comments or looks. As I chanted "God is Great," for the first time I could remember, the words didn't feel empty or like a soulless memorized ritual. Something stirred in my chest. I didn't know what He was like, couldn't picture Him in form or image. But in that chant, I felt a faint awareness: that He was far greater than all my shackling fears, greater than Father's anger that once felt like a mountain, greater even than the dogmas, rules, and rote lessons I'd studied without truly understanding. He transcended it all.
Then, as I reached the call to "success"—*Hayya 'alal falah… Hayya 'alal falah…*—a realization struck me with blinding clarity, like lightning in a clear sky:
The success I'd sought so fiercely, with anger and frustration, wasn't a trophy from an adhan competition to display. Nor was it Father's absolute approval. The true success, which I only realized as my own voice echoed in this room, was finding the courage to begin this journey. The courage to stand here, with my imperfect voice, and call. Just as I'd fought with data, sketches, and solid plans to earn my chance at technical school, I now saw that finding my own faith required the same fierce struggle. Faith wasn't inherited like property or accepted like a school uniform. It wasn't a finished product. It had to be sought with open eyes and heart, questioned honestly without fear of being labeled heretical, and fought for daily with actions and growing understanding.
For the first time, under the purple twilight sky, with my voice—perhaps trembling slightly on high notes but so real—I wasn't afraid to start that struggle. I was ready to get lost, to question, to doubt, and ultimately to find. A success whose meaning I defined, not measured by others' standards.
My voice wasn't perfect. My *Asyhadu anna Muhammadar Rasulullah* might have been flat, or my breath before the final *Allahu Akbar* audible. But for the first time, that voice felt full. Whole. Honest. No mask, no pretense. It was my own voice, with all its flaws, proclaiming a greatness far beyond it. As the adhan ended, its final echo faded into the surau's walls. I lowered the microphone, my hands trembling slightly but my heart calm. From a distance, in the front row, my eyes found Father. He didn't smile. No pat on the back. He only nodded once, brief and subtle. A minimalist acknowledgment, heavy with meaning, before turning to take wudu water. A nod worth more than a thousand words of praise. It was more than enough. More than I'd hoped for.
The Steel Dome of an Architect
Arriving home after group prayer and brief chats with neighbors who praised me (with a shyness that now felt different, not painful), the atmosphere was much lighter. Like the air after the rain truly stopped. The living room's neon light cast a warm white glow. Mother smiled broadly as I entered, asking little, but her eyes sparkled. "There's still warm porridge, son," she said, her version of praise.
After a simple dinner—fried fish, sambal terasi, and clear spinach soup—I saw Sari sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, immersed in her colorful world as usual. Her thick sketchbook was open, crayons and colored pencils scattered like gems. I approached and sat beside her, careful not to disturb her focus. On the slightly wavy white paper was a magnificent, detailed mosque, far beyond her usual scribbles. A towering minaret adorned with tiny calligraphy, intricate door and window arches, and a vast courtyard with lush trees.
"Wow, this is amazing, Dik," I praised sincerely, awed by her precision. The small details in the window ornaments and pulpit carvings were stunning for her age.
Sari looked up, her cheeks flushed. Her smile was shy but proud. "I wanted to try something different, Kak," she whispered, her voice soft as rustling leaves. Her finger, smudged with blue, pointed to the top, a semicircular shape at the drawing's heart. "I don't want the dome to be gold, Kak."
I frowned, curious. "Not gold? What then?"
"Steel," she said simply, her eyes shining with a child's certainty. "Shiny steel. Like… like the shiny parts of Father's motorcycle engine." She mimed polishing something to a gleam.
I froze, mouth slightly agape. Steel? For a mosque's dome? "Steel?" I repeated, trying to grasp her logic. "Why steel, Sar?"
She looked at me like the answer was obvious. "So it's strong, Kak," she said plainly, raising her small fist. "Strong and… honest. Like Father's engines. If it's broken, you can see it. If it's good, you can see that too. It can't lie." She nodded, satisfied with her explanation.
I stared at my little sister, then back at her extraordinary drawing. A grand mosque with a gleaming steel dome. A combination I'd never imagined, trapped by traditional notions of sanctity and luxury. That steel dome wasn't just a material; it was a symbol. A symbol of transparent strength, of honesty that couldn't be hidden by gold paint, of precise function—like an engine. In the quiet living room, with only the creak of the ceiling fan and the lingering dinner aroma, I felt another answer, a validation from the most unexpected source: the pure heart of a child who saw the world without bias.
The enlightenment from my adhan—about a greatness beyond fear, about success in starting my own journey—was now reinforced, explained in simple yet profound terms by my sister's metaphor. Strong and honest. Like steel. Like true faith that must be fought for, not merely inherited. Like the relationship I was rebuilding with Father, requiring strength to endure and honesty to grow. For the first time, the weight in my chest—the burden of expectations, self-doubt, suppressed anger—truly lifted, replaced by a deep, expansive relief. I was no longer fighting shadows, neither Father's nor my own sense of not fitting in. With a heart that felt open, whole, and light as a feather, I ruffled Sari's hair and stepped into my room.
The First Page of a New Book
The night was late. Crickets and frogs outside formed a nocturnal orchestra. My room's neon light reflected off the bare walls. I sat on the bed's edge, staring at two notebooks on my desk. The first was my old one. Its dark blue cardboard cover was worn, peeling at the corners, filled with small scribbles. I picked it up, opening the first page. The musty smell of paper and ink mixed with dust filled my nose. Its pages were crowded with intricate gear sketches, precise pistons, oil flow diagrams, and basic physics equations. But more dominant were the scribbled thoughts: angry questions ("Why must I be like him?"), deep confusion ("What's the point of these rituals if I feel nothing?"), and fragments of poetry or song lyrics channeling my suffocation. This book was a silent witness to my long, exhausting battle—the war between Father's hopes and my identity, between dogma and doubt, between anger and guilt. I touched its scribbled pages, then stored it carefully in the wooden drawer under my bed, behind a stack of t-shirts. Not to be forgotten, but to be honored. Like a veteran storing war medals in a wooden chest, recalling battles that shaped but no longer fully defined them.
Then I took the new notebook beside it. Brand new. A quiet gift from Mother yesterday, wrapped in simple floral paper. "For your new thoughts," she'd said briefly, but her eyes said more. Its cover was plain, light green like new leaves, unadorned. Its pages were crisp white, smelling fresh, untouched by ink or sweat. I flipped through it. This empty book felt like an unmapped territory. And for the first time, I didn't feel the need to hide while writing in it. No need to tuck it under the mattress or behind the wardrobe.
I opened it slowly. The soft sound of its stitched spine creaked gently. The first page was so white, reflecting the lamplight. I picked up my beloved mechanical pencil, its tip once broken in frustration months ago. My hand held it steadily, but this time, I didn't rush to sketch engine schematics or calculate compression ratios. Nor did I write bitter rhetorical questions about why I bore this or that burden. My questions had changed. Their foundation and direction had shifted.
With calm, steady writing—unhurried, unwavering—I wrote a single sentence in the center of the white page:
*If God exists in the precision of a caliper, in the logic of a perfectly ticking engine, and in the satisfaction of hands creating something functional, then what is the best way to worship Him through it all?*
The letters stood tall, clear, claiming their space confidently. I stared at the sentence, reading it repeatedly. I didn't have the answer now. Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe it would take a long time. But for the first time in my life, that unknown didn't scare me, didn't make me feel empty or guilty. Instead, I felt a strange thrill in my core—excitement. Excitement like when I first cleaned a filthy spark plug until Father's stalled motorcycle roared back to life with one kick. Excitement to begin the search for answers. This search was no longer an inherited duty, a burden to bear. It was wholly mine. My path. My question. And with Father's steel legacy on my desk, my own adhan echoing in my ears, Sari's steel dome in my mind, and this first question in my new book, I was ready to step forward. The next page waited to be filled, not with certainties, but with an honest, strong process of searching. Like steel.
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