Category: A bit personal

Flowers

August 16th, 2025

No matter the season, she showed up every day at sharp 6 in the morning, a bundle of flowers in her hand. I never really talked to her, but she always greeted me whenever we cross paths. However, on that day, I decided to change the pattern.

“Where do you take those flowers?” I finally asked her.

She looked down, smiling hesitantly. “To my mother.”

“That’s very sweet of you. Does she live at the city center?”

She nodded. Though sadly, it was the only thing she wanted to disclose about herself. “How about you? What are you usually doing at this hour? I just realized I never asked…” Typical of her. If she did not want to talk about herself anymore, she turns the attention to the other person.

I smiled at her, glad that she showed the slightest hint of interest for me. “I am just going for a walk. I like it most when no one is around.”

“Hah, then I should get going,” she started to step away, chuckling, probably taking it as a perfect opportunity to break off the conversation. “Have fun on your walk, and see you tomorrow!”

This girl has always had her walls up. She would be warm on the surface, but the moment I started to ask something slightly personal, she deflected my questions. And although she never said anything when I disclosed something about me, she did seem to remember those little details – on my birthday, she gave me a little crystal because I told the group that I wanted to collect rocks. I only told her my birthday once, but she seemed to remember it. She did similar things to our other friends. Some people get unsettled by her private demeanor, and to be honest, sometimes I was not sure to which extend she likes – or tolerates – me. But I guess that is just how she is: Having thick walls up, but sometimes opening up a window. I sometimes wonder if she also acted that way in her other friend groups.

The next day, we met again. This time, she did not give me an opening. On the evening, we met at the group hangout. She told everyone how her day went – except the flowers. I tried to ask her about them again, but she deflected as usual.

Then came the next day. She seemed a little gloomier than usual. “Is everything alright?” I was concerned about her well-being because she did not seem to talk to anyone about her problems.

She smiled. I know that smile. There was something going on. “Yes, I just had difficulties sleeping like usual…” Of course she did not want to tell me what was going on. I did not continue my walk as usual but stood there until she was out of sight. I think I caught her rubbing her eyes. I heard from others that she had this bad habit of rubbing and scratching her eyes, it was maybe a small blessing that she was wearing glasses. But well, if you still rub your eyes with your glasses on…

I did not see her the day after.

And the day after.

And the next day.

I sent her a message, asking if everything was alright. Yes, she said, only caught a cold. She usually gets a fever on October, so she told me. “Do you need anything?” I asked her just to make sure.

“No, thank you. I have a friend who brings me some food. I hope I am well again by next week!”

She did appear again the next week. The fever must have been challenging for her, as I saw her still being weak and looking drowsy. “I can come with you, if you want?” I thought, if I could not be the person she confides in, or someone she did not trust yet, maybe I could just be there for her.

She stood still for a while. I did too. Then she nodded, and went ahead.

We did not take the bus, but walked all the way to the city center. Every time we passed a grave, she laid out some flowers in her hands, made the sign of the cross, and prayed for a little while. I did not share her religion, so I just stood there and watched. She did not bring the flowers to her mother.

We arrived at the church which she often talked about. She told me to wait, and came back with a key in her hand. She opened the front gates, then the ones of the church. With her finger on her mouth she told me to keep silent, else people would come and ask if they could enter the church. It would not be a problem if she had the time and social energy, but she told me that she currently lacked both. I chuckled but then nodded, and we sneaked in.

The church was still dark, she made the sign of the cross again with the holy water from the basin, and watched if I did the same. I hesitated, and she just shrugged. Then she turned some switch, and the Marian altar lit up. She looked my way, so I came to her. “This is my mother,” she told me, and put the last flowers in her hand in front the icon.
May 31st

May 31st, 2025

May 31, 2016. What date was it? I thought it was the time where I found out that I got accepted into my dream faculty in my dream university. People doubted that I could make it to the Natural Science and Mathematics Institute of Indonesia’s first-place university. However, it was on June 28, 2016, that I got the good news. On May 31, I was sitting in a school bench doing the entrance test. Thousands of people my age were put together at the same place, same time, to undergo a test that would decide on at least the next one year of their life – or their entire life. It was a fierce competition, and I think from around 2000 applicants, only roughly 150 got accepted. I was glad that I was one of them. It all felt like a dream because no one seemed to believe in me.

5 years forward, my application to Potsdam was not that impressive compared to it. I still could not believe that I am entering Germany again though, the place I called my second homeland – but different city. Still 4 years in, I am complaining about the flatlands here. I kind of miss the hills of my birthplace. And as I sit here in a still growing and developing city, I sometimes go back to the past, and see how things were so different there, then, and here, now.

My memories of my bachelor’s time are foggy. But I remember how I always joined the fundraising division in my first year. The first semester of selling snacks was fun, my bubbly charm came through well to the buyers, and I was famous for always having sold out my assigned box. It was a good feeling. I remember being the person in the background, always there, but never making any big impacts.

I think that has always been like that when I was just acclimating into a new environment. Being silent, in the background, helped me understand the dynamics of the communities I entered. Some see the leader in me though, or maybe the more impactful supporting role. Eventually, I would get offers to take in more responsibility than an active bystander. This also happened in the Catholic student community where I am currently in. Then I see what needs to be changed, and I try to strategize and execute. With some tears and drama in between. Looking back, it might have always been like this, with some growth hopefully!

My main contributions were in the Jazz Club and Orchestra of my university. During my first year, I had to step into a leading position because the main organizer was caught up in an initiation drama in his department – but more to that maybe some other time. From selling snacks, I joined the “Household” Department of the Jazz Club. There, I helped renting our facilities to other communities. Each community have their own events going on, and they often need band-stuff, from actual instruments to technical things like a mixer, microphone, and so on.

It was fun in its own way. I loved how we all worked together for a specific outcome. Sure, as an outsider, I didn’t get to know the ugly intricacies of what the higher-ups did. But looking back, it is what I missed most from my early student years: Teamwork. Though I have to admit that I tend to be a hermit myself, there is charm in a group of people who could organize themselves, and even rebel if the leader is not doing what is needed or wanted.

I also did a lot of things in the Orchestra. Tried to do fundraising, but it didn’t work out that well, then I think I also became the main organizer of the election – the event I had to step in for the leader the previous year. All of that I did on top of studying, having a Japanese course, and going through my initiation process of my department too. But well, it was all too much, add my personal baggage and my lacking social skills, and it all went down to a very bad depression in my third year. Maybe that’s why it all seemed so foggy. I suspect my depression gave me a hard time remembering things.

Working with people is fun but also exhausting. Everyone has their own issues and if you don’t deal with yours, other people have to deal with them too. At least so I felt. There were some people who carried influence but caused a lot of anxiety because of their own personal struggles. I always said I was the one who had the carry the weight, but looking back, I might be one of those people too.

I didn’t do a lot of things here in Germany. The personal baggage got hold on me and I had to deal with them. I also joined an orchestra, and sometimes I liked it there, sometimes not. Somehow, I decided to be the passive bystander there, always there, never significant.

The Catholics saw me differently though. The Father didn’t give up inviting me there, until I gave in and showed myself there. The people were nice. Sometimes they were annoying with all their political beliefs. “This is too conservative to me,” says one. “This is too liberal!” But they weren’t the homogenic-loving people back then in my homeland. I quickly saw all the problems there are in the community and started initiating rosary prayers before mass. It was shocking to me how it got politized. I got sad, but after some talking, I decided to push through. Being there taught me that triviality might not be trivial. What I thought was a no-brainer for a Catholic to do was a topic of debate. But maybe it’s just because I am in Germany…

And reading so much about Catholicism and seeing all the beauty and ugliness that comes from its human members made me realize that the world doesn’t need to be black-and-white after all. It finally hit me that I didn’t have to see myself as a victim. It dawned on me that even as a bystander, I can make a chance. The Holy Spirit gives us this special privilege of prayer so that we can pray if we don’t have anything else to do. And if we dive deeper, everything we do can become prayer. And that way, even the most passive bystander can be the most active participant. I think I get now why I am told that I have this gift of prayer. It fits me too well.

Then I saw how homogenic the community is after all. There are many international students, and a significant number of them are Catholic. It would not be right to not bring the diversity into the group, so I tried my best, with my lack of human warmth. Initially, I only wanted a group meeting and space where we could just share about our faith, but it became a traditional Bible study event.

Back then, I didn’t know that you can act in prayer. In a religious country as my homeland, being the “intercessor” was daily-talk for someone who doesn’t contribute anything to the group, be it a group project or an event. What is now a blessing for me was kind of a curse back then. I had to act to not being called an “intercessor”. But now? I think I gladly become one. And if I have to act, it will be in prayer.

Well, looking at things this way, maybe things did change. At least I don’t juggle as many things as before, and the personal baggage has been reduced quite a lot, though still a lot. I am still the passive bystander until I am invited in, but I can see myself differently now. And then maybe I feel this longing for a front-liner who could do the human things in my place. I like solving problems, but executing is a different thing, especially if you want to be welcoming and engaging to other people. That is not my ace. I like interceding for other people, but I need someone whom I also intercede for.

Now, it is May 31, 2025. I still can’t believe I am here, continuing my path as a Mathematician. How will it go from here? Will I stay being this happy bystander who takes action every now and then, or will my front-liner come some day? I am not a princess waiting for prince charming, but what difference does it make if I claim to be a strategizer waiting for her front-liner?
Where the Dead Don’t Have a Voice

May 17th, 2025

I was born in a land where the dead demand justice. There were many massacres there which did not get cleared up, and although it is in everyone’s memory that they happened, there has never been any big mention of the dead specifically. Additionally, it is a very spiritual place. Pagan spiritual. Yes, not the kind of hippie pagan where you just want to get along with everyone to maintain natural order. It is the kind which involved transactions with supernatural beings.

There are many stories involving human sacrifices for some kind of success. The instructions are very underground, but you basically have to interact with a spiritual being which promises you what you want. Some people sacrifice their own souls, but I heard of stories where others sacrifice their children. Or even strangers. The bigger success you wish for, the bigger sacrifice, the more people you have to offer them up.

I have never been in the circle of people who knew everything about this kind of stuff. There was some kind of force which blocks me from it. Maybe I am not worthy enough. Or maybe I don’t have this gift of seeing those spiritual beings vividly. I did have an experience where my perception of a spirit aligned with someone who could. I have tried to confirm it to a teacher who claimed he sometimes interacted with the souls roaming the school. But it seemed that I was just being led on, so a friend said. In a dream, I was being offered a full vision if I offered myself up during the full moon at that time. Then I could be one of those people. I couldn’t get up though, so I got lazy and refused. I felt a heavy pressure on me, a very angry presence. Only some “Hail Mary”s could bring me back my peaceful night, and then later, my peaceful life.

But that experience marked my life. I changed. Some years forward, my family brought me back to the land where I grew up. I felt peace, tranquillity. When I came back to where I came from, all I heard was noise. I couldn’t wrap my head around what was different, but I dreaded being there since then. I longed for the tranquillity I felt from my second hometown. I got convinced that it was because people did pray a lot there and did not do such cruel practices against people’s souls. What else might be a good explanation? Is the current one even a good explanation?

Maybe it is connected. If people pray, sooner or later, they will pray for the dead. The dead might have been soothed there. My second hometown was also a place where many deaths occurred. But maybe they got their justice. Maybe people care about them. They might not have names, but maybe they got carried in the prayers of the living. They are not forgotten. They don’t scream for attention. They don’t scream for justice.

One day, I got an opportunity to return to the land that felt so tranquil. I could not get to my second hometown, but to some other city that on the surface did not seem too bad after all. I didn’t know that there was something worse than the screams of the dead: The absence of their voice.

There are white bicycles spread around the city. Marking sites where their riders died in an accident. Sometimes, people think of them and put candles and flowers. But that was it. Who consoled their souls, stayed there for some minutes, listened to their pleas? But in a place where God does not exist, the dead lose their voice. Where the dead lose their voice, they lose their personality, their stories. They only become fragments of memories, if there is even anyone to remember them.

Once, I passed one of those white bicycles. It was in summer, I think. I had my own bicycle with me. I saw a couple stop for some seconds and move on. I took a closer look. The police hung out a poster that they were still looking for the person who the did the hit-and-run. So I prayed. At least I wished that the family of the victim might get closure. It would be easiest if the person got identified. Then I also moved on.

Not long after I saw the news that the culprit got caught. They got their sentence and had to serve for some months or years. I don’t really remember. I smiled. “Thank you,” I then heard a soft voice say. But my spiritual director told me to not let it get over my head. Who would have thought that it was just a beginning of a peculiar journey?

Since then, I just kept praying for the dead. Every now and then, I get a feeling that a dead person asks me for prayers, so I prayed. When I visited a historical site, I felt overwhelmed by the intensity of the plea. It was as if a lot of people came to me and asked that I pray for them. I went to mass for them, and prayed more than I usually did until I felt it was enough. I taught my friends to always stop and pray every time we went past the grave that was on the way of one’s home. At least, as often as we could.

Then, that friend died. The one whose way back home passes by a grave. When we were mourning his departure, there were a lot of people. But how many did really mourn his death? When we said goodbye, how many really did so? I saw more people just use him as an instrument for justifying their political position, saying more about how he was politically aligned with them, than who he really was. I saw people who didn’t lose a friend, but lost a thing they could project on. He was not a person to them, but a mere object. A mere number. In a place where the dead lose their voice, they become mere instruments. And deep in my heart, I refuse to let this happen.

I can’t be a loud politician demanding social justice for every dead person in this land. I don’t have the right to, because I am just a stranger here. A pilgrim at best. I can’t also be a person who digs up their stories and names, because that is not my field of expertise. But at least I can give them a voice. Maybe not a voice that can be heard by the living, but at least by themselves. Because I believe that the dead are not entirely dead. In this world where people become slaves to their desires, the dead might be even more alive than we are. That is why they deserve more than flowers and candles. That is why they deserve justice, in their own way, from us, in our own ways. And I hope that some day, all dead from all lands are soothed.

Category: A bit personal

Flowers

May 31st

Where the Dead Don’t Have a Voice