The Journey of a Boarding Student Who Dared to Disagree - Cerita Pendidikan

 

The truest form of goodness is not the one that merely looks good. It is goodness that doesn’t force others to be good. It doesn’t preach recklessly or advise arrogantly. It doesn’t exist to dominate, but to inspire. Goodness, as I understand it today, is about balance—between intention, action, and its impact on the universe. A wise goodness. A quiet goodness. A living goodness.

About eleven years ago, I graduated from a university of education that some might consider ordinary, but for me, it was the wildest place of growth. Six months later, I decided to exile myself to the land of the daeng—alone, far from the noise of my comfort zone. But before that, I had spent the last three years of college as the campus “cricket.” The title wasn’t official, but the lifestyle was real: living on campus from night until dawn, more familiar with the silence of the student office than with my own rented bed.

Back then, the grand green building that now stands tall didn’t exist. There were only ruins and piles of unfinished materials. My home was just about nine kilometers away, but somehow, my logic at the time decided to sleep on campus. Officially, I was a boarding student, but in reality, I was more often asleep in the old student office—a small room we claimed as the headquarters of our activism.

I even made a permanent investment there: towel, toothbrush, soap—everything was kept in that little bathroom. I only went home when it was truly necessary, or when formal events demanded clothes that didn’t smell of stale coffee from the night before.

What’s interesting is that before the faculty building was officially constructed, my friends and I had already “secured” one of the empty rooms. We declared it our own secretariat. Not official, of course—but militant enough. Even when the campus administration came to evict us again and again, we stood at the front lines, refusing, resisting, challenging.

We were the kind of students whose middle name was “defiance.” Not a single policy went unchallenged—not even those from the lecturers who had generously taught us. It felt like that old saying: “Raise a tiger cub, only to be bitten once it’s grown.” Perhaps that’s how they saw us. But for us, disobedience was a way of thinking. Criticism was a form of love.

From teaching certification programs, internship uniform rules, to the inauguration of new buildings—everything became the subject of our scrutiny. Our activism was unique: high energy, overflowing theories. From Marxism, Freirean thought, to religious doctrines—everything was seasoning for our dialectics. We dared to quote the stories of prophets and link them to campus politics. Sometimes it was brilliant, sometimes over the top. But that was our style.

Today, when I reread those old pages of thought, I can’t help but smile. Too heroic. Too overconfident. Yet behind it all was a youthful spirit that should never be underestimated. A spirit of refusing silence. A spirit of constant questioning. A spirit of defending the oppressed, even when we weren’t sure if we were right.

Now, in the working world, I often ask myself: is all of that still relevant? Is it still worth fighting for truth with a loud voice? Or is it enough to speak calmly, but firmly?

I don’t know the definite answer yet. But one thing I’ve learned is this: goodness doesn’t always need noise. It doesn’t always require a megaphone. Sometimes, silence and consistency are themselves extraordinary forms of goodness. Goodness that isn’t just good—but also wise.

And I believe, each person has their own path in seeking and planting goodness. The paths don’t have to look alike, nor be equally loud. What matters is that they aim for the same thing: to make this world a little fairer, a little more peaceful, and a little more reasonable for all of us to live in.

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