Pesantren house | Tebuireng Online

From the narrow booth on the second floor of the dormitory, Reza stared blankly outside, towards the tower of a quiet mosque. It’s been five months since he first entered this boarding school. Five months that feels more like five years.

He had just held the status of a santri, but his heart was still unfamiliar in this place. He learned, but his mind hovered. Memorization is left behind, lessons do not absorb, sleep no sound, eating uncomfortable.

“I’m not strong, ma’am … I’m not comfortable,” the words almost became a routine in every short phone to the mother at home. Always soft, almost desperate. But not just a complaint of spoiled children, there is a real emptiness in his voice.

Her mother, Mrs. Marni, a simple woman with a face that always looks anxious, has tried everything. He came to the cottage, brought Reza’s favorite food, stroked his son’s hair, comforting with village stories, sometimes even crying with him.

“Reza has struggled, son … I know this is heavy. But try to survive a little more … for your future,” he said at that time, holding Reza’s hand under the mango tree near the pesantren gate.

But Reza is still not comfortable. Even once fled quietly at dawn, only to be found in the afternoon at the city terminal. He was not strong with the quiet of the cottage, with a tight schedule, with a sense of loneliness that slapped every night.

Reza’s father, Mr. Zaini, who was originally firm and hard, began to melt. He and Mrs. Marni even secretly went to several religious and kiai figures, asking for prayers that his child would be strong, so that his heart was tethered in the way of Allah. They also, with guilt that they could not tell anyone, had met a “smart person” who said he could help melt the hearts of hard children.

There were days when Reza seemed to change. Calmer, more able to follow the schedule, more able to smile. But that was only for a moment. Like a small fire that never had time to turn on perfectly, dim back in a short time.

“Mother is tired, sir,” said Mrs. Marni one night on the porch of the house. His voice was hoarse, his eyes were swollen. “Maybe it’s not Reza’s way in the cottage.”

Pak Zaini was silent. The cigarette in his hand was extinguished in the wind.

But fate sometimes works outside of human plans.

*****

One night, Reza woke up earlier than usual. Azan’s voice hasn’t been heard, but he feels something moves. From behind the window, he saw the sky still thick, but the stars shine brightly. In the distance, he faintly saw an old figure walking slowly towards the mosque, carrying a prayer mat. Alone. Limp. But sure.

That’s Kiai Nawawi, caretaker of the cottage.

For some reason, this time Reza followed the kiai’s steps. Secretly, he entered the mosque, sitting in the back corner. See. Pondering.

Kiai Nawawi did not read loud prayers, not sobbing, nor did it say long dhikr. He just sat, looked down for a long time, then prostrated in silence. Long time. In prostration, Reza felt something he had never felt: a deep silence, real peace.

After dawn, he returned to the room. Not talking to anyone. But that day, he did not sleep at lessons. He began to record. He tried to memorize, even stammering. He greeted Ustadz first. There was no big miracle, but that was the beginning.

And the days passed, slowly changed.

A few weeks later, he asked permission from his cleric to call Mother. Reza’s voice sounded different.

“Ma’am … I want to try more seriously. But I want to be a mother and you come … I want to chat.”

That week, the little family sat under a mango tree. Like it used to be. But with a new atmosphere.

Reza no longer cried. He spoke calmly, with long pauses.

“I don’t understand, ma’am … but I’m tired of running all the time. Tired of blaming everything. I just want to try to understand … what is life for. And here, even though it is hard, I feel maybe … this is a place to learn that.”

Mrs. Marni’s eyes are wet. Pak Zaini looked away, wiped the tears that fell without being invited.

That day, they did not bring food. But bringing a small gift: a book called Sufi Heart Brochure. “From my father’s friend,” Zaini said.

Reza read the book at night. He did not immediately understand, but his words soothing. There is one sentence that he continues to remember: “Who knows himself, he will know his Lord.”

A few months later, Reza asked permission to study specifically from a new teacher at the cottage, Ustadz Luqman. He is not an old kiai, but famous for his knowledge depth. The words are simple, but enter the heart. He did not teach much fiqh law, but more asking: “What is the meaning of life for you? For whom you wake up in the morning? Why do you want to be liked by others?”

Reza is getting closer. Deeper. He is no longer a santri who wants to graduate quickly. He began to enjoy every tired as part of the journey home to his Lord.

He wrote a letter to his parents:

Mom, sir … thank you for being patient with this stubborn child. Now I understand … the cottage is not a waste of time. But a place to forge hearts. Thank you for not giving up. Pray for me on this road.

Years passed. Reza completed the level of study, then asked to serve at the cottage. He became a young cleric, teaching class younger siblings, accompanying them through the small storms he had also felt.

One evening, when the sun hung low, he walked in the cottage yard, seeing a small santri sitting alone. His face was grim. Reza approached, sitting next to him.

“Why, son?”

“Missing home, ustadz …”

Reza smiled, patting his shoulder. “I was like you too. But believe, if you survive … this place can be the most peaceful home in the world.”

That night, Reza sent a message to his mother:

Ma’am … this cottage used to be like a prison. But now … this place is home. Where I grow, fall, and rise. Thank you for the first time Mother and Father did not stop believed. I will continue to learn, teach, and maintain this place … with prayer and love.

Behind all that, Mother, Father, Kiai and many people smiled. Because a child who almost lost direction … has found home. Reza found the house. Pesantren.

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Writer: Ummu Masrurah