Chapter 1 - Joko Wiryawan, The Elementary School Teacher Who Loves to "Poke" People's Minds

Joko Wiryawan, forty-two, was a public elementary school teacher on the outskirts of Jakarta. His students knew more YouTuber pranksters than national heroes. He was known as the "strict but secretly admired" type of teacher. Every time Joko threw a sarcastic line in class, the reactions were mixed: some kids got scared, some burst out laughing, and some had even cried together as a whole squad.

That morning, Joko was chilling at Bu Tikah's (Ms. Tikah's) coffee stall-a small plywood-sided shop, clean and neatly arranged. On the wall shelf sat glass jars filled with kerupuk, sago cookies, and rengginang. The tables were simple but always shiny. A plastic mat was spread out in the corner for customers who liked to sit on the floor. The smell of fried snacks mixed with the aroma of black coffee and the chirping of birds from the mango tree outside.

Joko slurped his Top Coffee Gula Aren (Top Coffee Palm Sugar), typing a Facebook status on his phone-its ripped LCD held together by duct tape because the glue had long given up. Across from him sat Edi Saputra, his old friend who now worked as an electronics repair guy slash ride-hailing driver.

"Parents these days are getting on my nerves," Joko muttered, still typing without taking his eyes off the screen.

"I gave their kids two pages of homework, and right away they text me: 'Sir, my child is stressed from studying.' Like bro... you think my kid isn't?"

Edi snorted as he stirred his sweet tea.

"You're literally the scariest elementary school teacher in the world," he teased.

"I'm not scary, Ed. I'm disciplined. If they don't learn discipline in elementary school, they'll grow up to be thugs... or corrupt politicians."

"Please-since forever you've been spicy like that."

"It's not spicy. It's awareness! Look, people can buy a motorcycle on an eight-year installment plan. I sometimes think-'Is the bike really that expensive... or is the bike the one riding them?'"

Edi cracked up.

"HAHAHA! True though! Some people buy a motorbike just to flex on their ex. Meanwhile their helmet is still borrowed!"

He leaned forward, still grinning.

"But uh... what does all that have to do with your students and discipline?"

Joko shrugged, voice dropping softer.

"In the end, they stress themselves out. People forget something important, Ed...

The less you want, the happier you are."

Joko opened Facebook and scrolled through the post he made yesterday. It was just one line:

"Riding a motorbike without a helmet is like a superhero forgetting his magic cape. Dangerous! Even if the rider is 'Pak Haji (Mr. Haji).'"

(Pak Haji' is an honorific title in Indonesia. The word 'Haji' is given to any Muslim who has completed the Hajj, the major religious pilgrimage to Mecca).

The comment section was already chaotic-some agreed, some said he was rude, some wanted a moral debate. But the caption underneath was what made Edi laugh the hardest:

(FYI: 'Pak Haji' is my dad.)

Joko wasn't just sarcastic. He truly believed education could change-but only if it changed people's character, not just the curriculum. And if you couldn't start from the minister... then start from an old, crooked plastic chair in a Grade 5 classroom. From a chalkboard with peeling paint. From kids who knew TikTok songs better than the periodic table.

And from there, Joko was ready. Not just to teach... but to give "little slaps" to make kids think.

Literal slaps? No. Joko never yelled, let alone laid a hand on a student.

One day, there was a kid: Muhammad Matthew-Mamat. Smart kid, good at math. But with a broken home background, he acted out a lot. When Joko was explaining the lesson, Mamat would wander around the class, bother his friends, chatter nonstop, throw paper-anything for attention.

Joko had tried everything:

- Making Mamat sit outside

- Letting him study alone in the teachers' room

- Referring him to the school counselor

- Calling his homeroom teacher multiple times

But still, Mamat kept doing it.

Until one day, while Joko was seriously teaching, Mamat did his usual wandering tour. Joko-normally super patient-finally snapped. He slammed the whiteboard marker on the floor.

Not to scare the kid. Just pure frustration.

Right after that, panic hit him. He told one student to call the 3A homeroom teacher, Mr. Ibnu.

Mr. Ibnu came quickly, calm voice full of empathy.

"What's wrong, Mat?"

Mamat instantly said,

"Mr. Joko threw a marker!"

But some students protested:

"No he didn't! Mr. Joko didn't throw anything!"

Meanwhile Joko sat quietly at his desk, overwhelmed with anger, guilt, and fear... fear of losing control, fear of doing something wrong, and fear of failing at being a teacher who wasn't just supposed to teach... but to nurture.

If you've ever been a teacher, you get it.

If you've ever been a student, you should get it.

And if you're a modern-day parent...

...maybe it's time to listen before judging.

After school hours, teachers often invited Joko to hang out and grab coffee. But lately, he avoided going. Too many conversations felt pointless-office gossip, passive-aggressive comments about students, or random chatter like who used their teacher discount at Alfamart.

For Joko, workplace social skills were simple: don't join office politics. Don't trash-talk coworkers-it will eventually reach their ears. And don't expect everyone to like you. You're not a dog wagging its tail. Or a pizza that everyone loves.

Coworkers are coworkers. Not friends. After work, go live your own life.

Joko preferred talking to people like Bu Rika (Ms. Rika), the Bahasa Indonesia teacher who loved writing fiction even though her dream of becoming an international bestselling novelist never happened. Or Mr. Damar, the social studies teacher who liked discussing Montessori philosophy... while puffing on a kretek cigarette.

The teachers' lounge of SDN 04 (04 State Elementary School) wasn't just a break room. It was where wild ideas, frustrations, laughter, and sometimes tears spilled out. Old wooden desks crammed together, an ancient ceiling fan creaking like it was complaining, and plastic jars filled with rock-hard snacks that had survived since the New Order era (1966 - 1998).

That day, like usual, Joko sat alone in the corner-his unofficial territory. On his desk: a plastic cup of instant coffee, a yellowed lined notebook, and a half-used pen. The background noise of teacher gossip became a weirdly comforting soundtrack.

"Hey, did you hear? Bu Rika's getting close to Mr. Damar again," whispered Bu Tati while munching kerupuk.

"For real? Didn't they fight last time because he didn't buy her an iPhone for her birthday?" replied Bu Ina, sipping sweet tea from a lipstick-stained glass.

The afternoon light was dim. A thin layer of clouds covered the sky. Kids playing soccer outside could still be heard, along with the occasional shout of the vegetable seller.

Joko glanced but wasn't interested. But behind his flat expression, he observed. How people talked about others was like a small mirror... a reminder that life kept moving, and gossip was somehow fuel to keep it warm.

He checked his phone-teacher WhatsApp group: meeting schedules and skincare promotions. Nothing important. He put the phone down and stared out the window.

The mango tree outside stood still. Maybe listening too.

"Mr. Joko!"

A loud voice startled him. Bu Rika suddenly stood beside his desk. She always looked overly enthusiastic, like someone who consumed too much iced coffee, TikTok, YouTube Shorts, and Reels.

"Oh, hi, Bu Rika. What's up?" Joko stood halfway, polite but reluctant.

"Sir, I heard from Bu Ina that you asked the kids to write an essay about the meaning of success? Like... seriously?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Well... they're fifth graders, Sir. They get confused writing about their future dreams! They even ask their friends what their own dreams are. Some even copy. And you want them to think about success?"

Joko smiled. "That's exactly why. They need practice thinking. Even if most don't get it, at least one or two will reflect."

She sighed and sat beside him.

"Sir, honestly... I don't get why you bother. In the end, all parents care about is exam scores. Rankings. Math grades. Not 'meaning of success.'"

"I know. But life isn't just rankings."

"Yeah but parents don't see it that way. When their kid gets a bad grade, who do they blame? Us. Not the system."

Joko stayed quiet.

At another table, Bu Tati kept teasing Bu Ina about monthly discounts on e-commerce. Mr. Damar walked by with a box of textbooks. Joko nodded at him.

Inside, Joko knew: idealism was expensive. But it was the only reason he hadn't quit teaching. Every morning he saw his students-kids wearing torn flip-flops, kids sleepy from helping their parents sell food at night-he knew school had to be more than a place for grades.

Sometimes he imagined being a teacher like in Dangerous Minds. But this was Jakarta, not East Palo Alto. His kids? They knew TikTok dances better than "changes in matter"-melting, freezing, evaporating, sublimating... whatever the science book said. Whether they became bakers, pharmacists, construction workers, or ride-hailing drivers who memorized shortcuts instead of the periodic table... a bit of science would still matter.

"Sir, I'm heading home. Need to feed my kid," said Bu Rika as she stood up.

"Of course."

But just as she turned, her pen slipped and fell right near Joko's foot.

They both crouched to grab it, at the same time. Joko's hand accidentally touched hers. He immediately pulled back like he'd touched a hot stove.

But Rika lightly held his fingers for a moment-as if she wanted that moment to last just a bit longer.

He gently pulled his hand away. No words, no awkwardness-just firm boundaries.

He wasn't angry. He wasn't uncomfortable. He just... knew better. She was a good woman, kind, smart, fun to talk to. But Joko wasn't the type to play around emotionally. He wasn't hungry for attention. And he believed temptation only grows when you let it.

He handed her the pen.

"Here."

Her eyes searched his face, maybe hoping for something. But she saw only a small polite smile and a slight nod-an unspoken "sorry."

"Thank you, Sir," she whispered, and walked away.

After everyone left, the teachers' lounge grew quiet. Only Joko, his now-cold coffee, and the squeaky fan remained.

He opened his drawer and took out a stack of student essays.

"Success is when I can buy my mom a motorbike."

"Success is when I have a two-story house."

"Success is when my dad is proud of me."

Then he paused at one:

"Success is when I'm not scared to answer questions, and my teacher doesn't get mad when I get them wrong."

Joko froze.

For a long moment.

A soft breeze entered through the window, carrying the scent of soil and fried snacks from the stall outside.

He smiled. Just a little.

Sometimes, one honest sentence from a child is enough to recharge a tired heart.

"Jok, you're like a campfire," Bu Rika once told him. "Warm, bright... but people can get burned if they stand too close."

Joko chuckled. "Let's just hope nothing catches fire."

What Joko didn't say: he got tired too. Tired of being the "different" teacher. Tired of being strong in front of students, firm with parents, idealistic in a messed-up system.

But every time even one student changed-became kinder, more aware, or suddenly cleaned the class without being asked-that was enough fuel to keep going.

Integrity means doing the right thing even when no one is watching.

Sometimes, doing good is simple: like picking up a nail from the street before someone gets hurt.

Joko wasn't Superman. But he believed one thing:

Big changes sometimes start from small conversations. At a coffee stall. On Facebook. From a sarcastic sentence on a chalkboard.

And from a teacher who, even when exhausted, still sips his coffee thinking:

"What should I say tomorrow... so they actually think?"

Joko had no idea that the thing he thought was harmless and educational...

...would one day kill someone he loved.

And almost kill him too.

Chapter 2: Nostalgia, Heaven, and Hell

That morning, Joko Wiryawan was sitting on the tiny porch of his rented house in Kebon Jeruk. The place was one of those 4x9 meter shoebox units stuck to other shoebox units, separated only by thin walls that somehow made the neighbor's TV louder than your own thoughts. The paint was fading, the roof leaked in two spots, and the back drain loved to clog every time the rainy season came around.

But the morning was nice enough. The sky looked soft gray, like a blank sheet of paper nobody bothered to write on. Joko sat on his green plastic chair, legs stretched out, holding his coffee cup - not a fancy ceramic mug, just a thin glass cup he got as a bonus from buying cooking oil.

In his left hand: bitter black coffee.

In his right hand: his old Samsung phone.

He scrolled slowly through Facebook. Status updates, condolences, skincare sellers, and then an old post titled "Signs of Minor Doomsday."

"Wow," he muttered. "So many people dying young these days... What if I'm next?"

He sighed. And then, out of nowhere, a random but deep question popped into his head:

> "If only one out of my 44 elementary school classmates ends up in heaven... who would it be?"

His eyes drifted away as old memories pulled him back to SDN 03 Pagi (State Elementary School 03 Morning Session) - a school that later had to merge with the afternoon school because of low enrollment.

Back then they played gobak sodor, flipped bottle caps, and fought over the front seat because the class fan was broken.

(Gobak sodor is similar to a combination of tag, dodgeball, and strategic defense played on a rectangular court marked with parallel and perpendicular lines).

He chuckled to himself.

> "Maybe Dodi... used to cheat all the time, now he's a TikTok ustaz (religious teacher)?"

> "Or Rina... the straight-A student who works at some online sharia (the moral and religious law of Islam) matchmaking agency now?"

He took another sip.

> "Or Dani... the kid who loved farting in class but swept the mosque every day?"

> "Or Effendi, the invisible kid. Turns out he donates anonymously to the mosque every Friday."

His thoughts kept going.

> "Or the super religious one in class... who later got arrested for scamming umrah pilgrims."

(An Umrah pilgrim is a Muslim traveling to perform the Umrah, a voluntary "minor pilgrimage" to Mecca.)

> "The girl who always brought cake for the teacher... now a parking thug."

> "The quietest one in class... now an influencer who endorses online gambling."

He laughed, but it felt empty.

> "Funny... the older we get, the older our questions get.

In high school we wondered: who's gonna be a minister?

Now we wonder: who's going to heaven?"

He took a long breath. The morning breeze felt cold - not because of the wind but because of his thoughts.

His wife, Ika, walked by sweeping the small yard. Her hair was short now, tied up in a lazy bun. When they got married, her hair was long and neatly done every day.

Joko smiled weakly.

Inside, he whispered to himself:

> "If there's one thing I've learned... don't chase a perfect life.

Don't chase the perfect job, perfect wife, perfect kids.

Life isn't Instagram.

Perfectionism kills happiness."

He texted his buddy Edi:

"Bro... my wife is toxic. Manipulative. Drama queen. But... not materialistic."

Edi replied: "Oo."

(Quick. Emotionless.)

Joko smirked.

> "People use Rexona deodorant... she uses tawas (alum).

She eats pempek with rice.

Martabak with rice.

Siomay with rice.

Everything with rice - like life is never enough unless you add complaints."

Joko then remembered an old dream he once had before getting married. He and Edi were sitting at a small warung (road side stall) near their elementary school field. A short-haired woman sat across from them. In the dream Edi said:

> "She talks harsh, Jok. But she's not materialistic."

For some reason, that dream resurfaced this morning.

Because now Ika - once long-haired - had short hair.

And the one thing she never changed?

She was never materialistic. Not even once.

Joko exhaled.

"Why do women cut their hair shorter the older they get?" he asked his coffee.

Then he recalled a story he once heard from an ustaz (religious teacher)...

A story about a saint who lived in deep poverty. One day, his friend came to visit and asked the saint's wife, "Where's your husband?"

She answered harshly, "In the forest gathering wood. Hopefully a tiger eats him."

Later, the saint returned home carrying wood - brought to him by a tiger.

Time passed. The saint divorced the wife and remarried a kind woman.

One day, the same friend visited again.

"Where's your husband?"

The new wife replied gently, "He's in the forest gathering wood. I pray he returns safely."

And this time, the saint came home carrying the wood himself.

His friend asked, "Why not brought by the tiger anymore?"

The saint smiled and said, "Because ever since I married a righteous woman... my miracles disappeared."

From inside the house, Ika shouted, "Don't forget to take out the trash!"

"Yes," Joko answered softly.

"And maybe I'll take out my past trash too."

He sipped his coffee again.

The bitterness no longer surprised him.

Just like life.

> "Forty-two is weird," he thought.

"Sometimes I feel pious... sometimes I feel like my sins are as big as the national debt - impossible to pay off."

He opened his photo gallery and found an old picture of his kid - back when they were still in elementary school, still clinging to his leg calling him "Dad."

Now they were teenagers who only said, "Hmm" or "No, Dad."

He used to want to be a pilot.

Now he just wanted one thing: not to burden his kids when he gets old.

His only hope...

Just be good kids. Please don't end up in hell.

If they become astronauts someday - great.

If not - also fine.

He scrolled Facebook again and found a status from an old classmate who just became a civil servant:

> "This country isn't ruined by small people.

It's ruined by big people who pretend to be small in front of the law."

Joko smirked.

"Since we were kids, we were taught to follow rules.

The older we get... the more we think rules are for everyone else."

He started thinking:

> "Life isn't about being rich or famous.

It's about what you leave behind after you're gone."

More childhood memories came back:

- Fighting over an eraser like it was family inheritance.

- Getting scolded for messy handwriting.

- Getting a sandal thrown at him by the neighborhood chief for littering.

> "We were taught to throw trash in the bin.

But adults throw corruption everywhere."

He posted a status:

> "Heaven isn't for perfect people.

It's for people who know they're flawed, and keep trying anyway."

Minutes later, comments arrived:

"Amen."

"Deep."

"Bro, you okay?"

"Feeling down?"

Joko smiled small.

Sometimes people only care when you talk softly.

And even then... they don't always listen.

He looked up at the sky.

Cloudy.

But no rain.

> "If life is only about making people smile...

Maybe we forget to make God smile."

He drank the last sip of cold coffee.

Didn't matter.

Life doesn't always need to be warm.

Just don't let it spoil.

He didn't update any more statuses that day.

But inside, he wrote his own note:

> "I'm not sure I'll make it to heaven.

But I want to keep moving toward it.

At least... I won't stand still."

After taking out the trash and giving his wife a short handshake, Joko hopped on his old Honda Beat and rode to school...

---

Teacher, A Look, and the Start of a Movement

The sky was cloudy, but Joko Wiryawan - 5th grade teacher at SDN 07 Semangka Indah (State Elementary School 07 Semangka Indah) in the glorious Republic of Gulali (cotton candy) - felt bright inside. He walked into class wearing a blue batik shirt, khaki slacks, and an old pair of dress shoes patched with Alteco glue.

"Kids, you know something?

Sometimes I'm jealous of the cendol street vendor guy (cendol is kind of ice dessert)

He's happy every day, living simple, doesn't even need to update status every five minutes."

"Sir... you're jealous of a cendol seller?" Raka asked.

"Yes. Because he teaches us something:

Be grateful. Enjoy what you have.

Don't be FOMO.

Trends don't buy peace."

Joko continued, "You all in WhatsApp groups, right?"

The kids replied in unison, "Yes, Sir!"

"I only join one group," Joko said.

"The teachers' group."

A student raised his hand. "Why only one, Sir?"

"Because too many groups make your head noisy.

'Ting ting ting' all day - and most of it is nonsense.

I'm trying to write exam questions, then suddenly I'm reading memes for thirty minutes.

Too many distractions... pointless ones."

Some groups were worse:

People flexing, gossiping, arguing...

"Sometimes I just want peace. Work, pray, rest.

WhatsApp groups? Overstimulating, full of things...

Mostly useless."

The kids fell quiet.

"Once, a friend named Amel added me to the high school alumni group," Joko explained.

"I didn't say anything there, stayed silent.

Then one guy - Romy... now a police chief - wrote:

'Joko is successful but quiet. Must be because his inspiration is Limbad.'"

(Limbad is an Indonesian extreme magician and stunt performer famous for his vow of silence during all public appearances.

He performs dangerous "debus" acts (traditional shows of invulnerability) rather than typical illusions. His distinctive image (long hair, dark clothes, mustache) and silent persona are central to his act. He gained fame on the Indonesian talent show The Master.)

The class laughed.

"But actually... my inspirations are Prophet Muhammad, Michael Jordan, and my uncle Brigadier General Bedjo - the Tiger of Sumatra... Sumatra hero.

They even made a movie character of him in Nagabonar, played by Deddy Mizwar.

There's even a street named after him."

"At that time, I was struggling to find a job.

Barely had money to eat.

My wife had gone back to her father's house.

So I left the group.

Amel added me again.

I left again.

Quietly.

Then I blocked her number for a while - not out of hate, but because... sometimes people don't know when you're hurting."

"As Romy... for the police chief... he probably felt insecure.

People with power sometimes fear losing it.

Funny thing is... I never even talked to him once in high school."

Then he looked at his students warmly.

"You know... even with people we know, we have to be kind.

We don't know what they're going through.

How much more with people we don't know?"

Suddenly, Mamat - also known as Muhammad Matthew, the smart troublemaker - muttered:

"Life shouldn't be too happy, or too sad."

Joko froze for a bit.

> And the student becomes the teacher.

"Some groups," he continued, "are just photos of feet on fancy chairs, wearing Air Jordans... flexing for validation.

Meanwhile I come to school wearing glued shoes.

Sure, I get jealous...

But jealousy is fine.

Envy is not."

"Jealousy says: 'God, I want blessings like that too.'

Envy says: 'Take that blessing away from them.'"

"So now... I choose simplicity.

I don't need to know everything.

I just want peace.

Work, pray, teach you all."

The class went silent except for the rattling fan.

Some kids looked at him with respect.

Others were hungry and waiting for recess.

"And drama happens in groups too," he added.

"Arguments, passive-aggressive comments...

Some people dump their life frustrations there."

"So I stay in one group.

The teachers'.

And sometimes... I don't open that either."

"Sir, how do you know so much?" Raka asked.

Joko paused.

"Because one sign of the end of the world is when people know more about the world... than about their religion."

He ended softly:

"Sometimes life is easier when we know when to stay quiet...

and when to keep our distance."

Some students nodded.

They didn't understand a thing.

But they hoped maybe, just maybe - their grades would go up.

---

Chapter 3 - The Stare That Spreads

"Kids, before we start today's lesson, look at the board.

It says, 'Honesty is a currency that works everywhere.'

You know what that means?"

The kids looked at each other.

Some grinned. Others played with the eraser.

"I know, Sir!" shouted Raka Maulana from the back corner.

"Okay, explain."

"If you cheat, maybe you get a high score... but it won't work in heaven."

Joko nodded, half-smiling.

"Correct... kinda weird, but correct."

Joko Wiryawan wasn't your ordinary teacher.

At school he was known as strict but fair, quirky but sincere.

And his students would never forget one thing:

His death stare.

If a kid cheated, littered, or lied, Joko didn't have to yell.

He just stared.

Two seconds.

Three seconds.

And the kid instantly regretted their entire family tree.

"Pak Joko never hits anyone," Raka once said.

"But his stare is like, CCTV from hell."

That Friday, the sun peeked shyly through Jakarta's cloudy sky-clouds that looked like un-dried pillows.

Masjid (mosque) Al-Fattah was filling up with people.

At the back, an old wooden bench-dark and chipped-became the spot where teachers from SDN 08 (State Elementary School 08) waited before Friday prayer.

Joko sat on the edge, still wearing his PGRI (Indonesian Teacher Association) batik shirt.

Next to him, Pak Anwar, the PE teacher with a thin wallet but thick attitude, stroked his three lonely beard hairs.

"Jok," he whispered, glancing around, "don't you ever feel like Friday prayer is... a theater?"

Joko smirked. "What theater?"

"The theater of... avoiding the donation box.

Bro, I see people acting super holy the moment the box comes.

Their dua (prayer) suddenly gets extra long... just so they don't have to donate."

Joko chuckled. "Some pretend to sleep. I swear. Eyes closed, arms crossed, like a peaceful corpse."

Anwar nodded hard. "And the funniest ones are the guys who donate two thousand rupiah... but their face looks like they just donated land for an entire Islamic boarding school."

(2.000 Rupiah is 0.12 USD as of November 18, 2025)

"Like they expect angels to instantly book VIP seats for them in heaven," Joko added.

Anwar got more excited.

"But bro... the craziest ones are the ones who donate NOTHING.

But their heart volume is basically on Bluetooth speaker mode."

"Like, 'If I donate now, I'll go broke... no, no... later I'll suffer...'"

Joko said.

"Exactly!" Anwar laughed. "And then-when they make wudhu-they use water like they're washing a Suzuki Carry (minivan).

One whole gallon gone.

Meanwhile the Prophet said don't waste wudhu water even if you're at a river."

(Wudhu (ablution) is the Islamic ritual purification process performed before prayer or handling sacred texts. It is a physical and spiritual cleansing involving the washing of specific body parts with clean water.

Essentially, it's a necessary act of hygiene and spiritual preparation, symbolizing internal purity before connecting with God in worship.)

"I saw the most ridiculous one," Anwar continued.

"During the imam's dua (prayer), they scream the loudest: 'Aaaaamiiiiin ya Rooooobbal 'Alaaaamiiin!'

Hopes sky high... but effort, sincerity, sacrifice? Not exactly present.

But when the donation box comes?

Pocket locked.

Hands frozen.

Eyes pretending not to see."

Joko sighed, half amused, half sad.

"And the best part? After prayer, when someone donates food-like a nasi uduk lunch box-

the guy who didn't donate anything earlier is suddenly FIRST in line."

Anwar snorted. "Elbowing kids just to grab a piece of chicken."

Joko shook his head. "At the office they have gallons of Aqua water. But during Friday prayers, they pocket the free Aqua cup like it's treasure."

Anwar grinned bitterly.

"And the ones who donate nothing still judge the ones who DO donate.

With that face like, 'Ugh, show-off.'"

Joko looked at the crowd entering the mosque.

Then said softly, "Funny... the one thing you can show off-if your intention is to encourage others-is charity."

"Yeah, hadith says," Anwar replied,

"Anyone who encourages good gets the same reward as the one who does it."

(Hadith are the recorded sayings, actions, and approvals of the Prophet Muhammad. They serve as the second most important source of religious guidance for Muslims, after the Quran.)

Joko nodded.

"But the highest level is the opposite-

when your left hand doesn't even know what your right hand gave.

Quiet. Secret.

Not for content. Not for validation."

"Hard," Anwar said. "But the purest."

Joko remembered his old friend, Susilo "Bengbeng."

Once a struggling honorary teacher, now working at a BUMN (State-Owned Enterprises) office as deputy branch manager.

"Reminds me of a friend," Joko said.

"When he was broke, jobless, everything stuck... whenever the donation box passed, he put fifty thousand (2.99 USD as of November 20, 2025). Sometimes a hundred. Brutal."

Anwar gaped. "In the circulating box? Not even the main one?"

Joko nodded. "He said, 'The moment I'm scared of poverty... that's when I WANT to give. So fear doesn't win.'"

"That's... impressive," Anwar whispered.

"And guess what," Joko continued.

"He soon got a job. Money flowed. Health improved.

His house survived a fire that burned down every house around it-

except his.

Even though they shared a fence."

Anwar stared, shocked. "Whoa..."

"And once," Joko added,

"A motorbike hit Susilo from the front. But the guy who hit him fell and got injured-Susilo walked away with a tiny wobble."

"Allah (God) protected Susilo," Anwar said.

Joko nodded.

"Susilo always said:

'The most valuable charity is the one you give when you're scared of not having enough.'"

Then Joko said quietly, almost to himself:

"If you could ask the dead, 'If you could live again, what's the first thing you'd do?'

Their answer wouldn't be vacation.

Or shopping.

Not even praying."

Anwar looked shocked.

"They'd say... charity.

Because charity keeps flowing even after you're gone.

While prayer is an obligation-you're questioned about it.

But charity... can save you from the darkness of the grave."

"But," Anwar added thoughtfully,

"Some people donate billions, build mosques... but they don't pray."

"And all that good can collapse because they skip salah," Joko said.

"So yes-pray first.

But don't forget charity.

It might be... our saving ticket."

(Salah is a structured, ritual prayer that involves specific physical movements (standing, bowing, prostrating, sitting) and recitations in Arabic.

Muslims perform Salah five times a day at set times (dawn, noon, afternoon, sunset, and night).)

The adzan (call to prayer) echoed. They stood.

Rows formed.

At the corner, Pak Joni-mosque treasurer-prepared the green-strapped wooden donation box.

Joko took out his wallet.

Three bills left.

He separated one.

Anwar peeked. "A hundred?"

Joko nodded.

"To encourage others... including myself.

And don't tell anyone."

Anwar raised a thumb.

"Relax. My left hand is on vacation."

Joko smiled softly.

Inside his mind, an old reminder repeated:

> "A poor man with only one million...

if he donates one hundred thousand, he's giving ten percent of his entire life."

He glanced at the donation box approaching.

"Compare that with a rich guy with a billion, donating just a million.

Looks big to humans...

but who sacrifices more in God's eyes?"

Anwar murmured, "The small-giver with a sincere heart can outweigh the giant giver with a reluctant soul."

Joko nodded.

"Sometimes... the hardest part isn't the money.

It's letting go."

But don't get it twisted-

The Prophet also said: don't give more than one-third of your wealth.

Don't leave your kids broke.

There was even a true story of a respected cleric who donated all his assets-one billion-for a waqf.

But fiqh (Islamic jurisprudence) says the max is one-third.

His child grew up with resentment.

He felt abandoned and left with nothing...

while people praised his father endlessly.

(Waqf is an Islamic charitable endowment where assets, such as property or money, are permanently dedicated to charity or religious causes.

The original asset is never sold, but the income it generates is continuously used to fund community projects like hospitals or schools. It is essentially a form of perpetual, sustainable giving.)

---

Subchapter: The Stare That Spreads

Even outside school, Joko sometimes carried that stare.

One afternoon, he saw a young mom riding her Honda Beat scooter on the pedestrian path-while eating a donut.

Joko just stood, staring.

Hands on his hips.

Eyes sharp.

The mom slowly put her foot down.

Gave an awkward smile.

Turned around.

Her donut fell.

She wanted to pick it up... but embarrassment won.

Another day, at an Alfamart line, a guy wearing a fake Supreme shirt cut the queue.

Joko said nothing.

Just stared.

Hard.

The guy immediately stepped back, pretending to reply to a chat.

> "You go ahead, sir," he said politely.

This wasn't viral yet.

No movement.

But Joko started thinking:

> "Turns out you can make people behave... without yelling.

Just with the right stare at the right time."

So he posted a status:

> "If your words don't work, try using your eyes.

If your eyes don't work either... maybe you're the problem."

His Facebook friends started replying:

"Agree, Bang (brother) Joko!"

"Stares hurt more than curses!"

"Let's make a movement-Social Stare!"

Joko replied with one emoji.

️

---

Subchapter: The Crash, The Video, and The Viral Temptation

One day, Joko got hit by an old man riding a barely-alive motorcycle.

Joko's knee bled a little. His pants ripped.

But the old man got angry.

> "Can't you see where you're going?!" he yelled.

Joko said nothing.

No anger.

No blame.

He stood up, brushed his pants, and continued his day.

Inside, he only thought:

> "We don't get wiser because we get older...

we get wiser when we choose to."

But he forgot...

his GoPro was recording.

That night, bored, he uploaded the clip with the caption:

> "He was wrong... but he yelled at me."

A few hours later-

viral.

Comments poured in:

"cool, teacher."

"This is what happens when you still use logic."

"Bro, every rider acts like that."

"When we post stuff like this, we suddenly feel like the purest human alive..."

Joko read everything.

And slowly... something crept inside him:

Pride.

And... hunger.

Hunger for validation.

---

Subchapter: When The Stare Becomes a Movement

Joko started feeling like he had a "bigger role."

Not just a teacher.

He began watching for misbehavior.

Taking photos.

Writing spicy captions.

One afternoon at a red light, a motorcyclist broke the rule.

No one yelled.

No one scolded.

But everyone-drivers, a vegetable seller, even a scavenger-stared.

Long.

Cold.

The rider froze.

Lowered his head.

Backed up.

Social Stare became a quiet, growing phenomenon.

A soft protest.

A peaceful humiliation.

> Even movie ticket lines got better.

Even gas station lanes became orderly.

Even illegal parking guys started acting polite.

---

Subchapter: Deep Roots

In the days after, Joko taught his students one simple rule:

> "When you see someone breaking a rule, don't yell.

Don't fight.

Just stare.

Politely.

Consistently."

And from that tiny habit-

came the earliest seed of what people would later call:

"The Bully-for-Good Movement."

Not viral yet.

Not huge.

But quietly growing roots.

Joko had no idea that something he treated as a small educational trick...

would one day kill someone he loved.

And almost kill him too.

---