a thought.

I couldn’t quite elaborate what I felt when the bomb blew Jakarta again, last Friday morning. I forgot what feeling I should have had. Jakarta, has indeed become a favorite for bombing sites. Only God knows why. It has, of course, the largest Moslem population amongst the globe (though, it is not a Moslem country). It is one of the best place to live in, with the weather and the beaches and the mountains and the people and the variety of cultures and tribes and languages and the thoughts and the opinions and the politics and the democracy ; and the smile which has now become the cry.

Or, so it was a cry. People seem to no longer cry when things like this happen, except for those who directly affected due to losing their loved ones. If you were at the ground zero, you would probably cry, too– more because of the shock, not grief. So, that morning I was searching of the exact feeling I felt or I think I should feel.

This brought me back to August 2003 when J.W Marriott was first bombed. I was in Washington D.C with some 19 friend from Indonesia, being chosen as the first batch of an exchange program which aims students from significant Moslem populated countries to build understanding between American community and Moslem whose image was ruined after the 9/11. It was our first morning, our first newspaper vending machine, and that day, strangely, we felt excited. We had no idea how horrendous the bombing was or the feeling should be, but having our country exposed on the front page of The Washington Post, was overwhelming for us. Only after breakfast, that the staff told us that the bomb was bad and people died. We doubted of the continuity of our program. We were supposed to be there for 11 months. It was our first day, and the program was in jeopardy. Anyway, who would actually take a kid - from a country who annually get bombed - to live with their family for a year? The program was continued, though. We were forced to do some act of diplomacy for our country’s sake way before we even thought we would need to take charge.

And so we took charge, diplomacy in our own way, hoping to at least affect one person at a time. And I think we did well. Until, we got back. A bomb shook Jakarta again. That time I hysterically cried. I didn’t know what the cry was all about. I think it was out of the realization that somehow, after all we had been through, fear was still mastering this country, mastering me. I was forced into still living in fear, although I have been forcing myself to strive and overcome any doubt that would lead there. It was the realization that we were not the country - that we told the world – we were. We were not the kind and full of smile, we were not the peace and loving, nor the diverse yet unified. We were simply the country who has been bombed. And I guess it was a cry out of disappointment, that everything I’ve believed was shattered along with the windows of building along Rasuna Said. And I found no base to believe anything, because none existed. The so called world peace that after my exchange year, I believed to be the purpose of my micro-existence is simply nonsense.

Somehow, throughout the last couple of years, I mend my beliefs. Thus, when Friday morning, the news came about the explosion, I tried to feel mad, sad, ignorant, or else. I found none. I did say, this is stupid and all the typical cliché we usually say about terrorist attack. But that was not it. It was a friend’s words about how she felt heartbroken, which opened my senses. That after the Australian Embassy bomb she had been trying her utmost, choosing to volunteers, to share her believe with her juniors, to touch people’s lives one person at a time, to make people listen- if not comprehend – on why she wear veils yet she befriend with a Christian Chinese and calls a lady with blonde hair in America her mom. She felt all this time, all the effort, the thoughts she shared and the youngsters she empowered, crumbled apart with the bomb.

The feeling I have been searching throughout the minutes of the bombing aftermath. Everything was indeed crumbled, and I felt betrayed. Betrayed by my own faith I’ve been struggling to keep. It’s like when you believe Santa Claus existed. You tried so darn hard to keep on believing, even when the world says the opposite. Then, one day your parents tell you the real truth and you feel betrayed. I’m not quite sure who betrays who, now.

The faith is still there, I know. I guess this is just going to be yet another let down that would only encourage most of us to strive for something bigger. Bigger than any bomb that would ever explode. Yes, the world would curse, pity, help, or even mock. But, we have gone so far and they say the final sprint is usually the toughest one. I guess we’re in that phase; we just need to hold on a bit longer. Supposedly this is yet another pat in the shoulder. So, shall we?