The Mass Mover | Tebuireng Online

After the cottage days ended, Naim did not immediately return to the village. He felt that going home would only trap him in the routine he had known since childhood: rice fields, gardens and patrol posts. Even though his chest was still full of the energy he had stored for years in room number thirteen.

“When I go home,” he said as he said goodbye, “the sound will just be coffee shop chatter. I want to build a coffee shop where the chatter can be heard all over town.”

Everyone laughs. They know Naim is often outspoken. But who would have thought, those words would come true.

***

In the first years after graduating, Naim migrated to the district city. He opened a small coffee shop in the corner of the square. Not a cool stall with hanging light bulbs or latte art heart shaped. The stall only has a tarpaulin base, used wooden tables and plastic chairs that are slightly tilted.

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But there is one thing that makes the stall different: the chatter inside.

“Here coffee is just the ticket to enter. The important thing is that we chat,” said Naim to the first customer.

And right. From early morning until late at night, Naim coffee shop becomes a kind of place to be people’s parliament. Rickshaw drivers, students, teachers, even civil servants, all stop by. There were those who talked about fertilizer prices, there were those who were angry about potholes in the road, and there were also those who just laughed when they heard Naim discuss the conspiracy theory about flip-flops that always disappear after Friday.

Naim’s voice is loud, witty, but also sharp. He’s not just being funny. He was able to connect the problem of illegal parking with the theory of social injustice. Can explain the price of chilies in a storytelling style like stand-up comedy. People who initially came just to sip coffee, went home with their heads full of new thoughts.

Over time, the shop didn’t accommodate enough people. Every night it gets busier. From chat, ideas are born. From ideas, action is born.

First, they work together to patch potholes without waiting for the government. Then, they raise funds to help families whose children are sick but cannot afford treatment.

It all started from a coffee shop.

But increasingly serious conversations, sooner or later, come into contact with power. Especially when the mining issue that previously rocked the village started to be heard again—this time not only in my hometown, but also in other areas.

“If one by one our villages enter the mine, what will be left?” Naim exclaimed on the night of the discussion.

People fell silent. Then one by one they started nodding.

From there, Naim was no longer just a coffee shop owner. He is the driving force. Small demonstrations started in front of his shop: cardboard posters, borrowed toa, raucous voices full of enthusiasm.

The police often come, sometimes to disperse, sometimes just to supervise. However, Naim’s name is increasingly known. For the little people, it is like their own voice.

***

Of course, life as a mass mobilizer is not always easy. There were nights when he sat alone in a quiet shop after the demonstration had been disbanded. There was a time when he was approached by officers with serious faces, warning him “not to go too far.”

Sometimes he missed the time at the cottage, when resistance only consisted of discussions in room number thirteen, accompanied by burnt cireng and black coffee. At that time the world seemed simple: the only enemies were the rigid cottage rules and the waters that were starting to get muddy.

But every time he remembers the faces of the people who came to his stall with hope, he realizes: this is the path he has chosen.

“If I stop talking, who else will talk?” he muttered into a cup of coffee.

The climax was when the government announced the opening of a large mine which was said to absorb thousands of workers. Naim knows, this is not just about work. This is a matter of land, water, air and the future.

The coffee shop turned into a headquarters. Posters stuck to the walls, banners rolled up in corners, and wooden tables became places for impromptu meetings. He stood at the front of the crowd, cheap toa in hand, his hoarse voice echoing through the street.

“We’re not anti-progress! We just don’t want to be victims! If progress means the land runs out, the water runs dry, and our children just become cheap labor, that’s not progress—that’s robbery!”

Cheers went up. Police line up. Tension filled the air.

In the midst of the crowd, Naim felt like he was back in room number thirteen. The difference is, this time it wasn’t just three of his friends who heard it, but hundreds of people. And he knew, in other places, maybe his old friends were also facing their own paths in life—in different ways.

The night after the demonstration, the coffee shop was quiet. There was only Naim and a half-full cup of black coffee. He lit a clove cigarette, looked up at the sky.

“Sometimes I miss laughing with Rijal, debating with Syahdan, and being scolded by Fathan,” he said softly. “But maybe this is my way of keeping the fire in room number thirteen. The small fire that is now burning down the street.”

He smiled. Tomorrow morning, he knew, the shop would be busy again. People will come, not just for coffee, but for hope. And Naim, with all his chatter, laughter and courage, is ready to be his voice.

Writer: Sha’ban Fadol. H
Editor: Rara Zarary