The girl in the white and blue uniform sat silently on her front porch. The morning was still dewy, much like her eyes, which also seemed misty. But it was her heart that was most clouded at that moment. Today should have been an important day for her. The day students her age would battle with national final exam questions. Well... it should have been that way, but what can one do if sometimes fate doesn't align with desires? No one can fight it. Want to rebel? Hey friend, that won't help bring everything back, including the girl's eyesight.
“Nurul, come inside, dear. Let’s have breakfast together,” a woman’s voice called from inside the house, breaking the girl’s reverie. She was now forced to return to a reality she had no choice but to accept. Like those with sight, she walked casually without fumbling around. She knew the layout of her house perfectly, and her steps now halted as she stood before the dining table in the dining room. She sat in the nearest chair. “Where did you get your junior high uniform? You haven’t been to school for over a year, have you?” the adult woman, her mother, asked, a hidden cloud of sorrow on her face. And the girl’s father, sitting opposite her, also concealed a similar gloom. What parents could bear to see their precious daughter in such a state? It would be painful, even if they weren't the ones experiencing it. “It’s in Nurul’s wardrobe, other uniforms are still neatly folded there too,” Silence, only the noisy clatter of glass plates and spoons could be heard. The girl cleared her throat, then said, “Dad… Mom… Nurul wants to go to school, I’m already well. Can I…? Please…” “No, dear, you can’t. What if going to school triggers the return of your brain tumor? We love you very much, we don’t want that illness to hurt you again. It’s already taken your sight, that’s enough,” her parents explained, both appearing to take deep breaths before uttering those sorrowful words. The girl didn’t care and continued to persuade them with a thousand excuses she deemed logical and correct. A small debate ensued, ending in tears of sadness. That incident happened two years ago; time felt so fast. The situation and conditions were quite different now. Nurul, the once sorrowful girl, was now busy listening to the lesson taught by the female teacher in her class. Her uniform was also different, no longer white and blue, but white and black, like the color of gecko droppings. Through information from one of her uncles, she finally found that special needs school. Don't ask how she managed to breach her parents' defenses; it was just a matter of time, coupled with luck and persistence, even though her parents were genuinely reluctant to let her go. The considerable distance from her home forced her to live in a dormitory; it would be too risky if she were always exhausted. Her current school was vastly different from her former Islamic boarding school, which had many students. In her current school, each class had very few students, and her class could be said to have the most students among others. She, along with her three male classmates, made up the total number of students in her class—very minimal, and of course, she was the prettiest girl among them. And it was still fresh in her memory when she first met the headmistress, who suddenly took both her hands and placed them on a large book full of small bumps, like mini pimples. And to her horror, she was wide-eyed, almost dropping the book in surprise when she touched it. She thought the bumps were tiny animals scattered across the large book. The next day, she learned about those bumps, which were called Braille letters. There were six dots, but not all were needed; there were specific formulas and techniques to create each letter. And the writing tools she needed were very simple, not even requiring ink, unlike pens that always needed refilling or pencils that got shorter every day. A pen and a riglet were their names. The pen was short, shaped like a thumbtack, with a pointed but slightly blunt tip, designed to punch holes in paper that had first been clamped in a riglet, which had square-shaped columns, and each square had six holes. It's hard to describe, so it's better to see it for yourself if you're curious about its shape. On Nurul's, or Risya's as she was called at school, first day, she finally managed to memorize and practice it, and the next day she could already write with the tool and even read her own writing. To write more fluently, and because writing happened to be her hobby, she wrote a short story titled “That Candle Will Never Go Out.” It was very enjoyable for her to be able to write and read again like before, rather than writing with a pen or pencil, which resulted in writing that went up and down like mountains, and while others could read it, she herself couldn't see it, let alone read it. And before returning to her current position, where she should have been in the second year of junior high, specifically at the beginning of the second semester, because her education had stalled during that class period, she was temporarily placed in the fifth grade of elementary school for three months. There were only two students: Jusman and herself, but what was astonishing was not that, but Jusman's age, who was apparently half a century old. Wise people are right when they say that pursuing knowledge knows no age; as long as there is life in the body, we must continue to seek knowledge. “Hey, Sya! Are you going to join the computer training held by Rais?” asked Niko, one of her classmates, after their teacher had left the room. “Oh, of course! What about you?” “Not sure yet, but I’ll probably join,” “Yeah… just join. It’ll be fun; we’ll be taught the ins and outs of Microsoft Word, internet browsing, and so on,” “Actually, I’ve participated in training like that before, but because I rarely practiced, I only vaguely remember it. Oh, by the way, are you fluent in typing?” “Standard. I was initially taught ten-finger typing by Angga and Rais, and I memorized it perfectly in just one day. But I was only taught up to that point. Oh, why don’t you practice it often? There are many computers in the Higher Education room, aren’t there?” Well… that’s how it is, friend. For visually impaired people like them, it’s certainly mandatory and a primary requirement to be able to type with ten fingers if they want to operate a computer, laptop, or similar device. Without that, who knows… Month after month passed, and Risya had already spent half a year studying at the special needs school. Day by day, besides meeting students at the SLB, she also always met people like herself who also boarded there but continued their education in mainstream schools up to universities. With assistive devices such as the pen and riglet, Braille books, digital books, laptops or computers, mobile phones, scanning devices, and internet access, they could compete with other sighted students. In fact, one of her friends named Syarif always ranked first in his state high school. Their assistive devices, with the exception of Braille books, pens, and riglets, were all a bit “chatty” because they kept “babbling” when used, tasked with reading out the texts displayed on screens they couldn't see. The software and applications installed in these devices greatly facilitated visually impaired people like them. Risya also hoped to be like them, successful, and even wanted to be more successful than them, of course. Life's path isn't always smooth, is it? Risya's half-year at her special needs school unexpectedly brought her face to face with the threat of a death trap that could approach her at any moment. Yes... the tumor returned to her life; in fact, city scan results showed that this “terrorist” was now larger than before. Back to home, what can be said, friend? Again, she had to undergo surgery for the second time. And God, the Most Gracious, once again granted her a chance at life. Before she knew it, the girl had been in treatment and recovery for almost a year. Even in such a state, it wouldn't be Risya if she simply surrendered to fate, some aspects of which humans can change if they strive. And her efforts were not in vain, even though her parents strongly opposed her insistence on taking the national final exam, and again, it was just a matter of time. For four consecutive days, accompanied by her friend who was always willing to read the exam questions to her and simultaneously blacken the circles of her chosen answers, she finally passed. And before she knew it, the day arrived when her exam results were announced, and it turned out she had passed. Not content with just that, Risya again pleaded with her parents to let her return to school. Everything felt like déjà vu because the events of that day were not much different from what had happened years ago. Persuasion metamorphosed into debate and ended in tears. “Remember, Nurul, you are not an ordinary blind person like your other friends. You are blind because of your illness, and the doctor said you shouldn’t think too much. Don’t you care about yourself? Don’t you care about Dad and Mom? Your case is different from your friends; it’s very risky,” her father explained, his sad and angry expression making the lines on his face shift indistinctly. But as always, only time can change everything. It was time that could bring down the palace of Prophet Solomon, conquer a mighty king, and crumble sturdy mountains. Time, time, and time. Time is a creation of God that cannot be conquered or stopped by anyone except the Creator who created time itself. Currently, Risya was in a room at a state high school, accompanied by Uchi, one of her friends. Before them lay a sheet of test questions for admission to the school and a sheet of paper to fill in the answers. A female teacher approached as Risya was answering a question read by Uchi. “Do you want to enter this school? This is not your place; there is no Braille here,” the teacher stated firmly, acting coldly. Risya and Uchi flinched and turned. Risya froze in place; a cold hand seemed to grip her heart, making her breathless. Her eyes began to feel hot. “Many friends like me attend and achieve success in several mainstream schools like this one. There are many ways for us to grasp and follow lessons from teachers,” Risya finally replied after mustering the courage to express everything on her mind. Without a word, the teacher walked away. “Be patient, okay… stay strong!” Uchi comforted and supported her. But unfortunately, Risya’s concentration had completely vanished, shattered. Twice she had been treated unpleasantly and experienced discrimination. She shouldn’t have taken those test questions in that room; she should have done them in the same room as other prospective students and according to her room number. But a man, who was the supervisor in her room, stopped her from entering. “What do you want?” he asked. “I want to take the test here, and this is my room number, so I have to go into this room,” Risya replied, a slight tremor in her voice. “It’s better if she doesn’t test in this room; it might disturb other students. Try taking her to the office,” he said, addressing Uchi. So, here they were now, in the teachers’ office, meeting the unfriendly female teacher from earlier. Two incidents on the same day had ruined her mood, and when the announcement was circulated, she knew she hadn’t been accepted, but her name, along with other unsuccessful students, was listed on an adjacent sheet: the list of students for a newly opened private high school. “Ah, no wonder I had to fill out two forms at once when registering; there was a promotion for a new school after all. Hahaha… hmm… a trick!” Risya chattered, then laughed, trying to hide her sadness. Unsuccessful at the state high school, Risya enrolled in a State Islamic Senior High School, following the advice of her father and her friend who happened to be studying there. Since the first wave of admissions was over, Risya registered and took the entrance test in the second wave, where each prospective student faced a teacher directly and was tested. When it was Risya’s turn, she optimistically stepped forward, accompanied by her father. Apparently, the teacher before her was well aware of the law stating that Indonesian citizens have the right to attend school and receive education without exception, even if they are disabled. “I apologize, dear. Indeed, someone like you has the right to attend school anywhere. However, we have never had visually impaired students here and do not yet know how to handle or teach them. So, it would be best if you and your father speak directly with the principal because I am just a teacher here and cannot make decisions on my own,” the teacher said wisely, very different from the teacher she had met a few days ago. After ending the conversation, she and her father, along with her two true friends, Mingke, an alumnus of that school, and Farah, who was still studying there, immediately headed to the principal’s residence. Upon arrival, only Risya and her father entered the house, sitting on chairs in the living room. “What do you need?” asked the host without preamble, who was none other than the principal they were looking for. Risya remained silent, her heart pounding erratically. Her father immediately stated their purpose and objective, explaining all the capabilities of the visually impaired as he knew them. The man before her father was silent for a moment, then responded, though his demeanor was quite cold. “Hmmm… the government should establish more special needs schools to make them easily accessible…,” Risya, who had been looking down, raised her face. Even though the principal’s sentence was not finished, she could no longer hear the rest because what the man said at the beginning deeply stung her heart, making something within her writhe, wanting to rebel. “What?! What did that man just say? So, according to him, disabled people like me should… should always be in special needs schools? Special needs elementary, special needs junior high, special needs senior high, does that mean there should be special needs universities too? Special needs offices or workplaces? Until when? When will we socialize? Abroad, in places like Egypt, many great professors are blind! Why in a country like this, which hasn’t even achieved much, do they dare to restrict schools? Are visually impaired people not Indonesian citizens, so they don’t have the right to choose, even though we are capable?” she rebelled inwardly, desperately wanting to refute the opinion of the man sitting before her father. “Alright, I will discuss this with the other teachers first, because they are the ones who will teach and deal with it,” The next day, Risya and her father returned to the school. Both were waiting for the arrival of Arifin, one of Risya’s seniors who was already in college. Arifin was sent by the head of DPD PERTUNI Sul-Sel (Regional Board of the Indonesian Association of the Blind, South Sulawesi) to help her advocate for her rights. “Sorry, Risya, I’m a bit late,” Arifin said when he arrived. The three then entered the teachers’ office and were invited to sit before three important teachers at the school. Arifin immediately took out a laptop while explaining, then it was Risya’s turn to be asked to read the Quran, as one of the requirements for admission there was to be able to read the Quran. She took out a Braille Quran from the bag she brought from home and began to read it devoutly. “Subhanallah… amazing!” commented the three teachers after Risya finished reciting several verses before them. “I can read it too,” joked one of them, and the only female teacher then took Risya’s Braille Quran and felt it. At the end of the meeting, they asked Risya’s father to come back next Monday to find out the results of the meeting’s decision. As agreed, Risya and her father returned to the State Islamic Senior High School while the new students were undergoing orientation. Farah, who happened to cross paths with her, asked Risya’s father for permission to take her to her class, while her father himself had to go back to the teachers’ office. In Farah’s class, Risya received encouragement and support from Farah and her classmates. After a satisfying conversation, she went back out and found her father already in front of her. “Dad, what’s the result?” Risya asked curiously. Her father explained that she would be on a one-month trial period so that the teachers could determine if she could adapt and follow lessons well. If she passed it successfully, she would certainly be accepted into the school; conversely, if she failed, she would unfortunately not be accepted. The decision was painful, as if she were a guinea pig, but she felt it was better that way than to be outright rejected. And she would show them all that she was capable and could even compete fairly with other sighted students. Time rolled by so quickly. Risya was able to socialize well and found good friends who often helped her, and vice versa, like a mutualistic symbiosis occurring in an ecosystem. Before she knew it, a month had passed, and Risya managed to achieve some good grades in several subjects, even though there were one or two teachers who seemed reluctant to teach her, especially since she brought her “chatty” and noisy netbook every day, even though she had set its volume below standard. A male teacher whose voice was very familiar to her ears called her to meet him in the teachers’ office. Risya almost forgot that it was time for the school to decide if she was fit to stay there. “Congratulations, Risya, dear. You may continue to study here. In fact, the principal has decided that you don’t need to pay tuition fees until you graduate,” explained Mr. Sakiran, one of her teachers who had always supported her. Risya was stunned, unable to speak. Her patience had borne fruit, and she could now enjoy it before her. After a long silence, she expressed her deep gratitude to him, and especially to the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful.