The morning after crafting my "Inner War Map," I stared at the page in my notebook. I no longer read it to lament my fate but to understand my new mission. The decision I'd made last night was firm: I couldn't fight Father with feelings alone.
The "PATH OF DISCOVERY" column, once filled with mere hopes, now felt like a hollow demanding to be filled. It needed a foundation of reality.
Though my resolve was set, I honestly wasn't sure when to start. I thought I'd need a few days to muster more courage. But it turned out, one wrong sentence from the wrong person was enough to propel me into action that very day.
That afternoon, one of Father's friends from the port visited. As I brought coffee to the living room, I overheard their conversation.
"Your son, right, Dirman? The one who messed up the adhan competition?" the friend asked.
"Not messed up, just unlucky," Father replied, faintly defensive.
"Eh, whatever. That boy's best suited for pesantren anyway. If he touches a machine, he'd probably just break it," the friend said, laughing. Father didn't object. His silence was agreement.
My blood boiled. I returned to my room. The plan I'd crafted coolly last night now felt different. It was no longer just a blueprint on paper but a machine doused with gasoline.
That insult was the spark. Suddenly, there was no reason to wait. No more doubt. I had to prove them all wrong, and I knew exactly where to start.
First Mission: Warnet Operation
My first mission began by sacrificing three days' worth of pocket money. A packed lunch from the school canteen now felt like a luxury. I clutched the collected coins tightly in my pocket; this was my battle capital. After school, I didn't head home but to a stuffy, dim warnet (internet café) near the market.
The room's smell—a strange mix of cigarette smoke, dust, and a rarely serviced air conditioner—hit me immediately. I rented a computer in the corner booth for an hour. In front of the flickering CRT monitor, I launched my operation.
The search engine became my weapon. Fueled by anger at being underestimated, I typed quickly, fervently: "Success Stories of SMK Negeri 1 Balikpapan Alumni." Dozens of links appeared. My eyes widened reading a local digital newspaper article: "From Wrench to Workshop Network: Saeful Bahri's Success Story." I opened the school's official site, finding a curriculum structure with 70% practical training. I discovered a salary data table from the Ministry of Labor's website. My enthusiasm surged. This was it! Undeniable proof.
My booth time was nearly up. Just before deciding to print everything, a small doubt crept in. *This is too perfect,* my heart whispered. With hesitant fingers, I typed a different search: "Complaints of SMK graduates."
And there it was. A wave of contrasting information. Online forums filled with tales of frustration. Complaints about job scarcity without "connections." Statistics on graduates working outside their majors, earning below-average wages. Suddenly, my soaring enthusiasm receded like a wave retreating to the sea, leaving a wet, cold shore. This path wasn't a smooth highway either. It was a rocky road, with real risks of slipping.
The monitor flashed a time's-up notification. I sat still, staring at the two realities before me. With my remaining rental money, I printed three documents I'd held onto from the start: the promising salary table, Saeful Bahri's success story, and the curriculum page.
As the old printer creaked and spat out warm pages, my feelings were mixed. These were my weapons. My ammunition. But I now realized they were for a battle with no guaranteed victory.
Field Intelligence at the Coffee Stall
I continued my field intelligence mission the next day. I returned to the rickety coffee stall across from SMK Negeri 1 with a clearer purpose. I ordered an iced tea and sat in the corner, opening my social studies book as a disguise. My ears were tuned as sharply as possible.
The stall keeper, a chatty middle-aged woman, was talking to an angkot driver. "The SMK kids here are in high demand, Pak," she said. "But they've got to be really diligent and tough. The mediocre or spoiled ones? They'll struggle to find work too."
Soon, a few students in blue mechanic's wearpacks stopped by. I overheard their conversation.
"Man, that diesel engine practical exam with Pak Herman was brutal. My hands were shaking," one said.
"The teacher's harsh, but his knowledge is solid," another replied. "But look at Budi. He's great at tinkering, but still hasn't found a good PKL (work internship) placement. They say the big workshops are filled with connected kids."
I pulled out my old phone, opened the notes app, and typed everything under the table—the good and the bad. The picture became clearer: this was a promising world, but only for those ready to fight tooth and nail.
**Official Data from the Counseling Room**
The pinnacle of my intelligence mission was the riskiest step. I needed primary data from the most unexpected source: Pak Didi. I had to use strategy.
I approached him in the counseling room during a quiet moment, putting on the face of a diligent student.
"Excuse me, Pak," I greeted politely.
"Oh, Rasyid. Come in. What's up, son?" he asked, perhaps a bit wary.
"Well, Pak, I have an Economics assignment to make a career plan. We need to compare post-junior high education paths, including job prospects." I lied, but for a greater truth. "Do you have any statistics on our school's alumni job placements? Especially for technical majors?"
Pak Didi's face lit up, replaced by a proud smile. "Wow, of course we do! That's great initiative!" he said enthusiastically.
He opened a filing cabinet and pulled out photocopied sheets. "This is last year's data. Take a look. For the Automotive major, the job placement rate is 85% within six months of graduation. Many get recruited directly by big dealers."
He handed me the papers. My hands trembled as I took them. This wasn't just an internet article. This was official data, with the school's letterhead. My heaviest ammunition.
"Thank you so much, Pak. This helps a lot," I said, struggling to hide a victorious smile.
Silent Alliance in the Bedroom
That night, in my room, I stared at my arsenal: the warnet printouts, coffee stall notes, and Pak Didi's official data. I felt like a lawyer who'd gathered all the evidence for the biggest trial of his life.
As I organized the papers into a plastic folder, Mother entered with a stack of clean clothes. Her eyes immediately caught the scattered papers on my desk. She picked up the article about the successful alumnus.
"Yid…" her voice was laced with worry. "What's all this?"
I looked at her, not with blind confidence but with a heavier resolve. "This is my plan, Bu," I said softly. "Not proof that this path is easy, but proof that it exists and is worth fighting for."
Mother studied me, trying to understand. I showed her two stacks. "This is the good stuff," I said, pointing to the success story and salary data. "And this… these are the challenges." I pointed to my notes on forum complaints.
Her eyes, usually filled with sadness, now held something else—a mix of shock, admiration for my seriousness, and greater fear of the inevitable confrontation.
"You… you've thought this through so far, son," she whispered.
"I have to, Bu. For Father. For me."
She sighed, then did something unexpected. She helped me organize all the papers—both positive and negative—and tucked them back into the folder.
"Keep it neat," she said quietly. "Don't let Father see it before the time's right."
She didn't promise to help me speak. But her action—helping me hide my entire battle map, risks and all—was a declaration of trust stronger than words.
I held the plastic folder. It felt heavier than before. It wasn't just filled with hope anymore but with bitter reality too. The ammunition was gathered, but I knew it wasn't for an easy victory.
The question in my mind was no longer just "Will Father understand?" A new, scarier question emerged: "Can I handle all these risks myself?"
Data and papers couldn't answer that. I had to see it with my own eyes. I had to stand there, at that SMK, and breathe its air. I had to know if this rocky path was truly worth fighting for.
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