Ramadan slowly faded. And like the years before, this should’ve been the time I looked forward to most. The time to go home. The time to sit with my mother on the porch, peeling garlic while waiting for the rendang to simmer. The time to kiss my father’s hand on Eid morning. The time to return home not as an adult, but as the eldest child who could finally rest from pretending to be strong out here.
But not this year.
This year is different.
This year is still.
This year holds back.
The Pandemic and The Journey That Never Happened
I still remember that day in March—when the news said the virus had reached Indonesia. I thought it would pass quickly. A few weeks, then things would go back to normal. But it didn’t. Everything shifted. Offices went quiet. Roads emptied. Mosques closed. Friday prayers were suspended. And finally… homecoming was banned.
I said nothing.
There was nothing to say.
TikTok was loud, but my heart was quiet.
Zoom meetings replaced the warmth of late-night coffee talks.
And I knew for sure: I would not be going home this year.
Eid in the Kos Neighborhood
That morning, 1 Syawal 1441 H, my brother and I quietly stepped out of our small rented room. We were living together in Jakarta. Both away from home. Both stranded by the same reason.
We walked slowly toward the end of our alley. There, the local residents held a simple Eid prayer—on a tarp laid out on the concrete, with each person bringing their own mat. The spacing was wide. Everyone wore masks. There were no handshakes. No hugs.
But somehow… it still felt warm.
A humble kind of warmth.
The warmth of not being alone.
The imam stood on a plastic chair. His voice cracked but steady. The sermon was short and sincere: about gratitude, about patience, about protecting one another. I listened while looking up at the pale morning sky. I felt far from home, yet strangely closer to God.
After it ended, my brother and I shook hands.
No tears.
But a long pause before we walked back to our room and sat down for a simple breakfast.
Boiled egg in chili. Warm rice. Leftover crackers from last night.
We ate in silence, facing the wall.
“At least we still had Eid prayer,” my brother said.
I nodded.
He was right. Not everyone was that lucky.
A Call That Didn’t Heal
The night before, I called my mother.
Her smile came through the screen, but the tired lines near her eyes gave her away. My father sat behind her, quiet as always, occasionally glancing at the screen.
There were no long conversations.
Because sometimes, words only make the ache worse.
We Were All Waiting That Year
I know this story isn’t just mine.
Thousands, even millions of people went through the same thing.
They couldn’t go home.
They waited.
They endured.
And I believe—we all learned something that year.
That Eid is not just about new clothes or plates filled with soto and ketupat.
But about the people we still get to hear, the breaths that still reach us from far away, and the love that stays, even without a hug.
A Year Without Embrace, But Full of Prayer
That Eid, I didn’t go home.
But I still swept the kos room like sweeping our home’s front yard.
I still wore my white koko shirt, and walked to the alley for Eid prayer.
I still whispered the same names in my prayers—the ones I missed, the ones I love.
Maybe this was the quietest Eid I’ve ever had.
But perhaps also… the most honest.
Because that year, I learned:
Going home doesn’t always mean riding a bus or a plane.
Sometimes, it’s just a prayer walking barefoot to the sky.
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