Name: Muhammad Yusuf Aimar H.P       

NIM: 1612200049

Crying in the Village Mosque

The sun was setting as I arrived at the small village mosque in Gresik, a quiet place tucked between rice fields and narrow dirt roads. I had been in the area for a few days, visiting relatives and reconnecting with the roots of my family. But there was something about this mosque that I hadn’t expected—something that pulled me in, just as it did when I was a child.

The mosque, Masjid Al-Hidayah, stood at the edge of the village, its tall minaret barely visible over the coconut trees. From a distance, it seemed unassuming—simple white walls with a green dome that had seen better days. It wasn’t much to look at, but I knew this place held a kind of peace I couldn’t find anywhere else.

I’d come here for the evening prayer, Maghrib, after a full day of visiting family and friends. The hustle and bustle of Lebaran—the laughter, the food, the endless “Selamat Idul Fitri” greetings—had started to overwhelm me. I needed a moment to breathe, to reconnect with myself. I thought the mosque would be the perfect place to do that.

As I stepped inside, the cool air greeted me. The floor was covered in dark blue prayer rugs, soft under my feet. The familiar scent of incense and sandalwood mixed with the faint echoes of voices saying prayers, some low, some higher, like a soft symphony in the background. The mosque wasn’t crowded—just a few elderly men, quietly praying, their faces serene with the tranquility that came from years of devotion.

I found a spot in the back, near the wall, and unrolled my prayer mat. I took a deep breath, the tension in my chest starting to loosen. I hadn’t realized how much I needed this. The imam stepped up to lead the prayer. He was a familiar face—Pak Haji Yasin, a figure I remembered from childhood. He had been the imam of this mosque for as long as I could remember. His voice was calm, steady, yet commanding in a way that made you listen. Even as a young boy, I had always been drawn to the depth of his words.

As we prayed, I felt a wave of emotion wash over me. I closed my eyes, focusing on each movement, each word of the prayer. The gentle hum of the congregation around me blended with the soft clinks of the prayer beads in the hands of the elderly men. There was something so simple and pure about it—no distractions, no noise—just the connection between the believer and the Creator.

It wasn’t until the prayer ended that the tears started. Quietly at first, just a few droplets that I quickly wiped away. But soon, they came harder, uncontrollably. It wasn’t about the physical exertion of the prayer; it was something deeper—an emotional release I hadn’t expected. I hadn’t cried in a long time. I didn’t even know why I was crying now.

I didn’t want to make a scene, so I quietly moved to the corner of the mosque, hoping no one would notice. I tried to compose myself, but the tears kept coming. There was no stopping them.

As I sat there in the corner, feeling vulnerable and exposed, an old man approached me. He was tall, with a wrinkled face and a beard that had turned silver with age. He had seen me earlier in the prayer, but now he was standing in front of me, his gaze soft and understanding.

“Mas, kenapa? Ada apa?” he asked gently.

I tried to hold it together, but the words came out in a rush. “Saya… saya merasa kehilangan. Banyak hal berubah dalam hidup saya, dan saya merasa jauh dari rumah, dari keluarga, dari diri saya sendiri.” He nodded slowly, sitting down next to me on the cold marble floor. He didn’t try to stop me from crying. Instead, he let me be.

“Semua orang yang datang ke masjid membawa beban mereka,” he said. “Kadang kita hanya perlu sedikit waktu untuk melepaskan beban itu. Tidak apa-apa menangis di sini. Ini tempat yang aman.”

His words resonated with me. It wasn’t just the loss I had been feeling—it was the weight of the last few years, the loneliness, the struggles, the pressure of adulthood. The longing for my father, who had passed away a few years ago. The disconnect between the life I had built in the city and the simplicity I found here, in the village.

“Dulu, saya juga sering menangis di sini,” the old man continued, his voice quiet but steady. “Waktu muda, saya merasa hidup saya penuh dengan kesulitan. Tetapi masjid ini selalu menjadi tempat saya mencari ketenangan. Kalau kita datang dengan hati yang lapang, kita akan menemukan kedamaian yang kita cari.”

His words were a balm to my weary soul. I hadn’t realized how much I needed to hear them. The mosque was quiet now, the sound of the evening call to prayer drifting in from the loudspeakers outside. A few villagers had gathered for the prayer, but the mood was calm, peaceful. I stayed there, sitting on the floor, for what felt like hours. The man left me in peace, but his presence lingered, like a reminder that sometimes, it’s okay to let go.

I stayed for the evening prayer, listening to the imam’s voice rise and fall in the adhan, the call to prayer that echoed through the open windows. The light outside had dimmed, and the stars had begun to appear. The village was still, its quiet beauty somehow more profound than the chaos of city life.

After the prayer, the villagers began to slowly disperse, many of them offering me warm smiles and greetings. I hadn’t expected the sense of community I felt here. These were simple people, living simple lives, but they had a kind of peace that I had lost along the way.

The old man who had spoken with me earlier approached again. This time, he had a warm, inviting smile on his face.

“Mas, sudah lebih baik?” he asked.

I nodded, my throat tight but full of gratitude. “Terima kasih, Pak. Saya merasa lebih ringan sekarang.”

He patted me gently on the back. “Itulah kekuatan doa dan ketenangan. Kadang kita merasa kehilangan arah, tapi kita selalu punya jalan untuk kembali.” I stood up, bowing my head in thanks. The old man gave me one last look, his eyes filled with a quiet wisdom that seemed to transcend words. Then, he turned and walked slowly toward the door, blending into the shadows of the mosque.

I stayed a little longer, letting the stillness of the night settle over me. The stars twinkled above, and the night air was cool and crisp. I wasn’t in a hurry to leave. For the first time in a long while, I felt at peace.

As I walked out of the mosque, I took a deep breath, feeling the weight of my emotions finally begin to lift. I was far from home, far from the busy life I had in Jakarta. But here, in this quiet village mosque, I had found something I didn’t even know I was searching for—a moment of release, a moment of peace. As I left the mosque and walked back down the dirt road, the stars above seemed to shine a little brighter. Maybe, just maybe, I had found my way back—back to myself, back to peace, and back to the comfort of simple things. And for the first time in years, I felt like I was exactly where I was meant to be.