22.14 - Abhimanyu

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09:15 AM - In Front of the UI Rectorate Building, Depok.

The sun had been scorching since morning. The crowd for the 100 Days of Government action had filled the field. A yellow banner reading "Total Evaluation of MBG & Reject VAT Increase" was stretched out.

Abimanyu Pradipta was not in the middle of the crowd. He was sitting on the highest steps in front of the UI Central Library, where he could see everything without having to jostle. Beside him was a worn canvas tote bag, containing Aristotle's "Nicomachean Ethics" and a small notebook. He was wearing a black jacket and cargo pants.

Then that voice was heard from the command car loudspeaker.

A woman climbed onto the bed of the truck. Her yellow UI alma mater jacket was tied around her waist, inside she wore a white shirt that was already a bit wrinkled. Her hair was tied high. She held the mic tightly.

It was you.

"We are not here to celebrate 100 days! We are here to evaluate 100 days of failure! When VAT rises, those who scream are not those in Senayan, but the mothers in the stalls! When the cabinet is bloated, those burdened are not officials, but the state budget that comes from people's taxes!"

Your voice was loud, clear, and there was no tremor of fear at all. You mentioned data one by one. LBH UI data on agrarian conflicts in 12 locations, evaluation data on the Free Nutritious Meal Program that you researched yourself for BEM UI, data on the increase in basic commodity prices after the VAT increase. Not an empty oration.

Abimanyu, who usually only noted quotes from philosophers, that morning wrote down your sentence in his notebook.

09:22 AM - FH 2023, oration on VAT and cabinet. Argument: law as a living reality, not dead text. Brave. One year above me.

He didn't join in shouting "Long Live Students". He just closed his notebook and listened until the end.

04:30 PM - The Action Disperses.

The action was declared over by the field coordinator. The crowd began to walk in an orderly manner towards the gate. Abimanyu had already gone back inside the Central Library to return a book and look for references for his wall magazine essay entitled "The Ethics of a Noisy Public Space". He saw from the 3rd floor window, your group from LBH and BEM were still doing a brief evaluation under a tree.

08:50 PM - Margonda Raya Road.

Heavy rain came down. All the stalls closed earlier. Abimanyu had just finished and was walking home to his boarding house in the Kukusan area. The street was quiet.

When passing the police post near the Kukusan turn, he saw two patrol motorcycles with flashing rotator lights speeding towards the small alleys. There was a faint HT radio sound: "Monitor the separated student, there is still one around Kukusan."

Abimanyu quickened his pace.

09:42 PM - Narrow Alley Towards the Boarding House, Kukusan, Beji.

The drizzle had just stopped. The alley was very narrow, only wide enough for one motorcycle. The alley light was dead, there was only dim light from a boarding house kitchen light leaking out. The ground was muddy, full of shoe prints, the smell of wet soil and sewers was pungent. The sound of crickets and the sound of police flashlights from the next alley could still be heard.

Abimanyu's steps stopped completely.

In front of the boarding house boundary wall full of green moss and spray-painted graffiti, there was someone sitting leaning with knees bent. That proud yellow UI alma mater was now dirty, full of splashes of mud and sewer water. Her hair, which was tied high this morning, was now messy, some strands stuck to her forehead because of sweat and rain. One of her white sneakers had come off and was lying in a puddle. Her breath was panting, short, like someone who had been running very far.

Your face was pale. Your hands were trembling holding a cellphone whose screen was dead because it had run out of battery.

You. That Law Faculty student, class of 2023. The orator from this morning.

There was no more mic. There was no more LBH UI. There was no more thunderous courage from this morning. What existed now was only a 22-year-old woman who was exhausted, scared, and alone.

Abimanyu immediately crouched down, but he kept a safe distance of about two meters. He didn't want you to think of him as a threat. He put his wet canvas tote bag on the ground. With a very slow movement, he took a 600ml bottle of mineral water that was still sealed from inside the tote bag, opened the cap, and placed it on a brick in front of you, then pushed it slightly towards you so you could take it without having to touch him.

"Drink first," he whispered softly, his voice almost drowned out by the sound of drizzle on the zinc roof. "Slowly. Take a breath first."

He then looked towards the end of the alley. The light from the flashlight of that patrol motorcycle swept the next alley. The sound of boots was getting closer.

"Don't go through the front road," he continued in a voice that remained calm and stable, not panicked at all. "I saw at the intersection ahead, there were two patrol motorcycles stopped. They are combing the alleys. If your boarding house is in Inner Kukusan, just go through the gap beside Mrs. Asih's stall. It leads directly behind the boarding houses. Motorcycles cannot enter there."

He didn't ask "Why are you here?" or "Where are you from?". He knew the answer. He just remained sitting quietly across from you, with his back to the direction of the police, as if becoming a visual barrier so that the flashlight would not directly shine on you.

After making sure you had taken a sip of water, he said again, this time a little more clearly.

"My boarding house is only two alleys from here. If you are still strong enough to walk, I will take you to the end of that small alley. I will walk in front, you behind. No more than that. So you are not alone in this dark alley."

He waited for your answer, with both hands remaining on his own knees, not trying to touch you at all.

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