Romo replied softly, "You know, in some spiritual traditions, land that has witnessed massacres will retain that energy. And if it is not purified, that wound can manifest as collective fear, trauma passed down through generations, even in art and dance."
Marlon smiled wryly. "That's probably why Balinese people are so strong in maintaining ceremonies. It's like they are constantly making peace with the past through prayer."
Suddenly, the sound of gamelan music drifted from a distance. It seemed to come from nowhere, even though it was already late. The sound was soft, as if originating from behind the night mist, flowing like a lullaby for the spirits.
Riri turned her head. "Do you hear that?"
Romo nodded. "Sometimes in the villages, the gamelan is still played at night for certain ceremonies. It could be to honor ancestors, or to cleanse a place."
Marlon said softly, "Maybe… they are talking to the past."
Bli Komang passed by from the back carrying new incense. He saw the three of them lost in thought on the terrace.
"Ah, you're still outside? Be careful not to catch a cold," he said in a light tone.
Marlon raised his hand politely. "Bli… sorry if this is sudden. But… is it true that Bali once experienced a great massacre?"
Bli Komang was silent for a moment. His eyes didn't look directly at Marlon, but towards the ground of the courtyard. Then he nodded slowly.
"True. But not everyone wants to talk about it. Even in my own family, my grandfather always kept silent when asked about those years." He looked at them now, his eyes sharp but gentle. "We were taught from childhood not to bring it up carelessly. But it's not because we want to forget… it's just that we're not ready to open the wound."
The atmosphere fell silent again. The sound of the gamelan still flowed, interspersed with the soothing sound of the wind.
"But you young people," Bli Komang continued, "if your intention is truly to seek the truth, do it with a clean heart. Don't just want to know… but also understand why many people choose to remain silent."
Romo stood up and bowed slightly. "Thank you, Bli. We will keep that in mind."
Bli Komang only smiled. "Go to sleep. Tomorrow Bali will offer another lesson. This land speaks, but only to those who are willing to listen with their hearts."
When Bli Komang went inside, the three of them remained silent on the terrace. The night grew later, but the burden they felt seemed to grow heavier. Not out of fear, but out of a newfound awareness.
That a land that appears beautiful can hold a dark history. And that the beauty of today does not mean there are no wounds in the past.
Marlon looked at the sky and whispered softly, almost like a prayer:
"May history not be forgotten. So that we do not repeat it."
After Bli Komang went into his house, silence returned to the simple courtyard of the kos. The night breeze still blew gently, but the atmosphere was no longer as warm as it had been a few minutes before. Something hung in the air. Something unseen, but felt. Like words caught in the throat, not yet spoken.
Riri sat up straight. She looked at Marlon with an unreadable expression—a mixture of disappointment, worry, and annoyance. Meanwhile, Romo sipped the rest of his tea, then set the glass down slowly as if trying to suppress something within himself.
"Marlon…" Riri's voice was soft, but her tone was firm, "Why were you so reckless?"
Marlon frowned. "Why? I just asked something important for us to know. We were all talking about the history of the killings earlier, and I was just… well, curious about the local perspective."
Riri held her breath, then sighed deeply. "But you asked Bli Komang directly. Someone we just met. Balinese people have strong etiquette about speaking, especially about sensitive things like that. You could easily be considered rude."
Romo finally spoke, his voice soft, almost like an older brother scolding his beloved younger sibling.
"Marlon, your intentions may be good. But the way you express them needs to be careful. This isn't a casual topic. We are guests in someone else's land. And the history you asked about isn't just data in a book—it's a wound. A wound that not everyone is ready to open."
Marlon looked down, but tried to defend himself.
"I understand what you mean… But if we just stay silent, when can we learn from the past? We're here to seek the truth, aren't we?"
Riri immediately retorted. "Seeking the truth doesn't mean asking carelessly. There has to be ethics. You can start by building closeness, little by little. Not asking directly like an interrogation. We're lucky Bli Komang is a good person. What if he was offended? We could be kicked out tonight."
Marlon rubbed his face, then stood up and walked to the edge of the courtyard fence. He looked at the quiet small road in front of the kos, only the streetlights and the occasional passing motorcycle.
"I just feel… we're always told to be silent. Since childhood, from school, from the media. Even now, when we're already in this place, on this land, we're also told to be careful, slow down, don't open old wounds. But if everyone stays silent, all the trauma is buried, all the history is forgotten… who will prevent it from happening again?"
Romo stood up, walked closer, and gently patted Marlon's shoulder.
"No one is telling you to be silent forever. But understanding other people's wounds takes time. Just like you can't immediately talk about the death of a parent to someone who just lost them last week."
"Dark history is like an open wound," Romo continued, "if you open it without preparation, it can get infected. But if you approach it with love and patience, it can slowly heal. And from there, people will be willing to talk."
Riri also stood up, this time her tone was softer. "You know, we were all shocked when we heard that story. But we have to remember: it's not about how quickly we get information, but how deeply we understand their feelings."
Marlon was silent for a long time. He looked down, then nodded slowly.
"Yeah… Sorry. I was too hasty. I was too caught up in my curiosity. I forgot that this isn't a debate room… but a room of wounds. And other people's wounds aren't for me to pry open carelessly."
Riri approached and patted Marlon's back. "Tomorrow we can find out in a more thoughtful way. Maybe we can start talking to the neighbors at the kos, or the locals around here. Just listen first, without asking too many questions. Sometimes, people will talk if they feel you truly care."
Romo smiled faintly. "Bali will speak. But not because we force it. But because we learn to listen with our hearts."
That night, they finally went to their respective rooms. But their words echoed long in their minds. Marlon pondered on his simple bed, looking at the ceiling and hearing the sound of the gamelan that seemed to drift from nowhere, like a very faint melody once more.
And for the first time since they arrived in Bali, Marlon didn't write a single note. He just allowed himself to feel. To feel that being a human seeking the truth requires not only sharp logic, but also deep empathy.
THE GATE WITHIN A DREAM
The night in Denpasar felt different. The humid air did not hold back the silence that crept in slowly. Marlon fell asleep on the thin wooden bed of the kos, with the window wide open facing the clear night sky. The sound of crickets and the wind made sleep feel like being lulled by nature.
But in his sleep, Marlon suddenly found himself standing before a large temple. Not an ordinary temple. Its gate towered high, full of intricate carvings like tendrils of roots and writhing dragons. The air around him was fragrant with incense, and the ground beneath his feet felt warm.
At the First Gate, he was greeted by a row of Balinese female dancers in traditional attire, with bright red sashes and sharp yet gentle eyes. Their movements were graceful, as if cutting through the air. Gamelan music flowed without any visible musicians. Only sound, as if from the sky. The dance seemed to welcome and test his intentions at the same time.
Marlon stepped slowly, bowing politely, then passed through them.
As he passed through the Second Gate, the atmosphere became more sacred. Dozens of people sat cross-legged peacefully in the temple courtyard, offering prayers with incense smoke curling between their hands. The aroma of sandalwood and frangipani filled the air. All faces were bowed in devotion. A priest stood before them, sprinkling holy water towards the rows of worshippers.
Romo suddenly appeared beside Marlon, wearing clean white clothes, just like the other worshippers. He whispered softly,
"I want to join them in prayer, to feel their peace…"
But before Romo could approach the altar, there was a subtle pull from within Marlon's chest. An invisible urge, inviting him deeper, through a narrower gate, the Third Gate.
Without a word, Romo only looked at Marlon hesitantly. But Marlon stepped inside.
Beyond that gate, the atmosphere was very different. There was no more music or incense. Only the sound of sobbing. Marlon saw many Balinese people weeping. They knelt, embracing the still bodies of their relatives. Some of the deceased were covered in white cloth, others were simply laid out on woven mats. The cries of small children, the wails of women, and the silence of old men blended into a symphony of grief.
His heart constricted.
"What is this…?" Marlon murmured, his steps slowing, his body seemingly freezing in the middle of that courtyard of sorrow.
Suddenly, an old man in complete Balinese traditional attire—white headdress, long-sleeved white shirt, and neatly wrapped kamen—emerged from behind the crowd. His face was wrinkled, but his eyes were sharp. He looked at Marlon calmly.
"You… come from Talaga Manggung, don't you?"
Marlon was startled. That was the name of his ancestor, Sunan Talaga Manggung. And also the name of a kingdom in Majalengka, West Java, that was rarely even mentioned in history books.
"Y-yes… how do you know, Bapa?"
The old man smiled, then looked towards the mourners who were still grieving.
"These… are your brothers and sisters too. You cannot merely read their history from books. You must listen with your heart. Their wounds are not stories. They are life. They are trauma. They are souls."
Marlon looked down. His mouth was dry.
"I'm sorry, Bapa… I didn't mean to…"
The old man stepped closer, then patted his shoulder.
"It's not about intention, child… But about feeling. Empathy is the fourth gate that cannot be opened by intelligence—only by compassion. Be careful how you speak. Words can be new wounds, or a bridge that heals."
Marlon was silent. His voice was gone. His head bowed deeply, and the world around him began to fade.
The crying slowly subsided, then turned into the rustling of wind.
Suddenly, he opened his eyes.
The ceiling of the kos room greeted his gaze. The sound of an old fan hummed softly in the corner of the room. His breathing was heavy, his forehead slightly damp.
He sat up slowly on the bed. Outside the window, the sounds of morning birds had begun to be faintly heard. But the dream still lingered. Too real. Too touching.
"Talaga Manggung… Empathy… The fourth gate…"
He whispered to himself, then reached for the notebook beside his bed. He stared at the blank page for a moment, then began to write. Not theories. Not concepts. But feeling. A feeling he had only truly understood with his whole body and soul for the first time.
Morning greeted Denpasar in its own way. The sun had not yet fully risen, but the sky was already a pale orange, as if swept by a gentle hand from the east. The fragrant aroma of canang sari from the surrounding houses began to be smelled, carried by the wind that entered through the windows of their simple kos.
In the small kitchen that was only large enough for one person to stand, the sound of a boiling kettle began to be heard. Riri sat cross-legged on the front terrace, gazing at the sky that was slowly opening the day. Romo stood not far from her, hanging a towel on the wooden fence. His white clothes were still damp from wudu (ablution). The kos was quiet, only the three of them and the distant crowing of a neighbor's roosters could be heard.
Marlon stepped out of his room with slow steps. His hair was still messy, but his face was serious, unlike his usual playful morning demeanor.
Riri glanced over.
"Hey, you woke up on your own this early? That's a first."
Romo added while yawning,
"Usually we have to wake you up twice and threaten to withhold breakfast before you move."
Marlon didn't laugh as usual. Instead, he sat down quietly next to Riri. His hands clutched the small notebook he had written in last night, right after waking up from his dream.
"I had a dream, Ri… Mo."
Both of them immediately turned their heads.
Romo sat cross-legged facing Marlon, looking at him attentively. Riri moved closer, her expression turning serious.
"What did you dream about?" Riri asked softly.
Marlon sighed. His gaze pierced the morning sky.
"I was in a big temple. There were three gates. The first gate was greeted by a typical Balinese dance. So beautiful, I can't describe it with words. The second gate, there was a prayer ceremony, people were so devout. You were there too, Mo. You said you wanted to join the prayers. But I was pulled… deeper. To the third gate."
Riri swallowed softly. Romo just waited.
"There… I saw Balinese people crying. They were hugging corpses. Many of them. Like a mass burial. The atmosphere wasn't scary… but deep. Like an old wound that hasn't healed. Then, there was an old man in traditional clothes. He said I came from Talaga Manggung."
Romo immediately straightened his back.
"Talaga Manggung? Isn't that… your grandfather's ancestor's name?"
Marlon nodded slowly.
"Yes, my ancestor Sunan Talaga Manggung's name, the kingdom's name was also Talaga Manggung. But he didn't just mention that. He said: 'These are your brothers and sisters too. You cannot merely read their history from books. You must listen with your heart. Their wounds are not stories. They are life. They are trauma. They are souls.'"
Riri bit her lip. She looked down.
"So… that dream was like a reprimand?" she murmured softly.
"Yes. He even said: 'Empathy is the fourth gate that cannot be opened by intelligence—only by compassion.'"
Romo was silent for a long time. The morning breeze gently blew the frangipani leaves that had fallen onto the courtyard. The sound of motorcycles and morning prayers from the house across the street began to be heard, but their conversation still felt isolated in its own world.
"Do you… regret your question to Bli Komang last night?" Romo finally asked.
Marlon nodded.
"Very much. I thought I just wanted to know history, but it turned out I wasn't worthy to open it. I just realized… even 'wanting to know' must be accompanied by gentleness."
Riri sighed deeply.
"At least you realize it. We are all still learning. And Bali… maybe it is indeed educating us, not just being a place for us to study."
Romo smiled faintly.
"Sometimes dreams are more honest than long discussions. Maybe that temple… isn't an external place, but within your own heart. And that gate… is the process of you understanding the wounds of this nation."
Marlon looked at the sky. Sunlight began to peek from behind the roof of the neighboring house. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened his notebook and wrote a sentence:
"Forgive me, my brothers and sisters in the land of the gods. I come not to tear open old wounds, but to learn to smell their scent, so they do not fester in the future."
The morning was not yet very high when Marlon stood in front of the main door of Bli Komang's house. He was wearing a white t-shirt and thin cloth pants, his face still bearing the stillness of last night's dream. In his hand was a small box of traditional market snacks he had bought earlier at a stall near the alley—a small gesture of respect for their host.
The wooden door opened slowly, and Bli Komang's calm face greeted him with a warm smile.
"Astungkara, good morning, Marlon. What brings you here so early?"
Marlon bowed slightly, then handed over the small box.
"Sorry, Bli. I… wanted to apologize for my question last night. I realize it was too direct. Not wise. I have been reprimanded… by a dream. Maybe by ancestors. Or by my own conscience."
Bli Komang didn't answer immediately. He looked deeply into Marlon's eyes, as if searching for something behind his gaze. Then he smiled, not just with his mouth, but with his whole face.
"If you have realized it, that is already a very good step. In Bali, that story is like fire—warm if tended, but can hurt if touched carelessly. But you are still young. You came to learn. Bli knows your intentions were not bad."
Marlon nodded slowly.
"I want to learn with my heart, not just my head."
Bli Komang patted his shoulder gently.
"That is the most important thing, son. Here, even stones can have memories. So we must walk slowly."
After breakfast, the three of them decided to walk around the neighborhood of their kost in Denpasar. The morning began to stir brightly, the sky was clear blue without clouds, and a gentle breeze carried the scent of incense and fresh flowers from the offerings scattered along the road.
Every five steps, they would find a canang sari—a small offering made of woven young coconut leaves in a square shape, containing colorful flowers, a little rice, and a stick of incense that was still smoking. Some were placed in front of shops, some on the side of the sidewalk, even on the dashboard of parked motorcycles.
Riri bent down, observing a canang placed on a sewer cover.
"These… all these offerings aren't just symbols, right? But like a daily conversation with nature."
Romo chimed in while taking a photo from a distance, not wanting to disturb.
"Yes. Here, spirituality is not separated from daily life. Everything is integrated. Even the sewer is given offerings, perhaps as a form of respect for water."
The streets began to get crowded. They walked past a small market that was starting to get busy. Balinese mothers in sarongs with baskets on their heads greeted each other with smiles, the sound of gamelan music from the market radio was faintly audible. On the side of the road, several foreign tourists chatted with shop owners, mixing English and humorous body language.
"I really like the atmosphere," Marlon murmured. "Lively but still calm. Busy but not chaotic. It's like everyone knows their place."
They passed a handicraft shop selling Balinese masks. Riri stopped for a moment, looking at a barong mask hanging there, full of color and expression.
"I once read… masks aren't just decorations, but the embodiment of energy. This isn't a culture that's just displayed, but one that's lived."
Not far from there, an old man was sitting in front of his house, weaving young coconut leaves while smiling at them. He waved.
"Good morning, children," he greeted them kindly.
"Good morning, Kek," they replied in unison.
Romo took a step closer and asked softly,
"Kek, do you make canang every day?"
The old man chuckled, his eyes twinkling.
"Yes, child. If we don't give, who will maintain harmony? We live side by side with the seen and the unseen."
They continued their journey through a small alley that led to a small city park. There, children were playing ball, and several Caucasians were practicing yoga under shady trees.
"Bali is like a mosaic," Riri said softly. "Every corner has a story, but everything complements each other."
"But I still feel like an outsider who's just learning the alphabet," Marlon said honestly. "There's so much I don't understand yet. But for some reason… I feel accepted."
"That's probably because you already asked for permission," Romo replied. "To humans, and to the heavens."
The wind blew again, carrying the scent of incense and frangipani. The three of them sat for a moment on a park bench, observing the life of Denpasar that continued to move, but seemed to remain calm in its own rhythm.