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

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.

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