Eid in Jakarta hits different. While everyone’s rushing home to reunite with family, Jakarta suddenly transforms into this calm, beautiful, breathable city. The air feels lighter, the roads are empty, the chaos pressed pause—and I love it.
As a Muslim, not going home during Eid might sound strange, rebellious even. But the truth is—I haven’t been “home” for Eid since 2015, when I moved to Bali. Why? Because sometimes, peace comes with choosing yourself. And for me, choosing not to step back into that “old movie” I’ve watched too many times, is the way I protect my peace.
You know the script: “Why are you still fat?” … “Shalat, now.” … “Come see the old neighborhood with your little sister and her kid.”
There’s nothing wrong with tradition, but there is something deeply exhausting about constantly performing for it.
I never felt at home in my childhood home. But strangely enough, I always find home anywhere I go—Bali, Berlin, Oaxaca, wherever I choose to plant my feet and breathe fully. “Home is where the heart is” isn’t just a quote to me—it’s been my anchor since I divorced, packed 3 million rupiah in my pocket, and started a new life on the island that saved me.
I get it—my mom gets melancholic when I don’t come back for Eid, even though she gets giddy opening the gift box I sent. My sister? She went full script: “You don’t have a heart. While our parents are still alive, you should come home.”
But they don’t know the whole film. They didn’t live through the scenes where I—between age 0 to 12—had to wake up my short-tempered father after just four hours of sleep because patients came knocking. They don’t remember how my mom would send me to face his fury just to collect that practice money, while she stayed away from the blast. They don’t know that for 12 years, our family didn’t do “kiss and tell,” only “lock and swallow.”
I didn’t learn to talk. I wrote letters. That was my way of speaking without shaking and sobbing. And don’t get me wrong—I love my parents. I forgave them, I even had the courage to tell my dad how much that pain shaped me. But I also know that once a vase shatters, no matter how much you glue it back, the cracks remain. Still functional, just… different.
So here I am. Choosing myself again this Eid. Working, resting, doing laundry, answering emails. Some may say it’s wrong. Some may not understand. But to me—it’s courage.
Courage to answer the question, “Why are you working on Eid?”
Courage to manage my own expectations when people don’t show up the way I wish they did (like when my best friend didn’t pick up, and I just called a GoCar and went home without drama).
Courage to know everyone’s built differently, and that’s okay.
That’s why I don’t get homesick. Not in the traditional sense. If anything, I get Bali-sick. Because Bali is home—chaos and all. And honestly, home is within me. It always has been.
At the end of the day, we all have the power to choose. There’s no such thing as “no option.” We always have one. And mine, this Eid, was to honor myself—even if it looked different.
