I am not an incredibly patriotic person. I don’t have a great pride of places I represent. However, I have wanted to be a Paskibraka since I was in late elementary. Something about the synchronization of movement between dozens of people for the act of raising a 2 x 3 m flag so honourable in the struggle to settle it as ours. It was a mediocre ceremony in junior high, after a 3 year hiatus due to Ramadan falling on August. I knew most of them had no desire to continue this kind of thing come senior high, but I digress. That flag ceremony cemented my will to take part in such events on a national scale.
The several days leading up to the event was an emotional rollercoaster. The sadness on the last day of practice when we realized that this won’t be our routine anymore, as it had been for the past 2-3 months. When we realized that these other 44 people we see literally every day, who we shared a very strong bond too, are going to return to their own lives as we would with ours. When we realized we would have to face school that has been at the back of our minds. The happiness when we were inaugurated and were officially Paskibraka. The relief when we went off the court on 17 th of August, 2016. And for me, the panic of trying to make the visiting hours of Siloam Semanggi’s ICU.
My grandpa had been in and out of hospitals the past couple of years. First it was cancer, then a curse, then various ailments which left him paralyzed waist-down. It was my ultimate wish to visit him in my PDU (Pakaian Dinas Upacara, the whole attire), but it wasn’t possible as the garment itself arrived later than expected so there was simply no time. And thus, I resolved to visit him right after Tutup Panji (the return of the flag to its box, to be saved until August 17 th 2017), still in full uniform. But when I got there, it was too late.
His kidneys were failing. They couldn’t process his bodily fluids well. He was swollen. His stomach ballooned and his eyes had to be medical-taped shut. I broke down. He couldn’t see me, or hear me, or talk to me anymore. Heck, he was barely alive. It took my whole willpower to approach him and whisper apologies that I didn’t visit and ask for his blessing a week past, whisper prayers, whisper hopes. He had been a worry during my practices; there was days where whenever a senior called me over I think of how it was about me being summoned home, or to grandpa’s funeral. I would space out and repeatedly get sanctioned for being late to follow orders. But with him outliving my “duty”, I had hopes that he might not be as dying as I thought. I was wrong.
Either 6 minutes or 16 minutes past midnight, he passed away. I suddenly woke up at 1 a.m. and it turns out my mother had messaged me, but I slept anyway. In the morning, I was the last to wake up, the last to shower, the last to get downstairs. I was still in a state of disbelief. When I got to my grandparent’s home, I didn’t even want to see him. I went straight to the garden swing, until my uncle informed me that guests were arriving, and he was about to be cleaned, then wrapped for the last time. Last chance to see him. So, I reluctantly headed back inside.
The funeral procession was grand. He was regarded as a decorated hero, to be buried at TMP Kalibata. There was this whole rite to hand him over to the “police force” from the family, with police apparatus ceremonial suff I don’t know really understand. He got 112 carnations of condolences. 112. One of them was from the damn Kapolri. The boards were stacked 4 boards deep in his home’s parking lot and up the street 500 meters long. Jl. Tendean was cleared out for his convoy. The military was delegated to be present at his funeral. He was a much respected man who held his values and his pride high. He often refused to show his pain. It’s one of my favourite qualities in him.
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