Jakarta has always been a city of fire and contradictions—where dreams rise high above skyscrapers, yet struggles drown in the alleys below. A city of resilience, yes, but also of unrest. And lately, that unrest has grown heavier, darker, louder—anger spilling across the streets.
It started with numbers that cut like an insult: lawmakers receiving housing allowances nearly ten times the minimum wage, while the rakyat fights every day just to survive. That pain was already boiling when tragedy came—Affan Kurniawan, 21 years old, a ride-hailing driver, struck down by a police armored vehicle. His life stolen, his dreams silenced. His name now joined by others, more lives lost to greed and negligence.
The city erupted. From every corner, voices rose—not begging, but demanding. The chants were not only about salaries or privileges. They were cries for fairness, for dignity, for justice. For Indonesia to finally stand on the side of her people, not against them.
But what met them? Tear gas. Water cannons. Rubber bullets. The streets of Jakarta—once full of becaks, ojeks, buses, laughter—turned into battlefields. Trust, already fragile, shattered further. And with every fallen life, the question grows heavier: how much more will the rakyat have to pay for the greed of the few?
As I witness this, I feel Jakarta’s heartbeat—furious, restless, alive. This is not chaos. This is not “just a riot.” This is the soul of a nation crying out, demanding to be seen, heard, respected. This is Indonesia standing in the mirror, asking its leaders: will you truly serve us—or only yourselves?
The smoke may fade. The sirens may stop. But the questions will remain, carved into our streets, into our hearts.
And so I write this—my letter to you, my beloved Indonesia.
With pain. With hope. With love.
Chits.
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