OPEN LETTER TO JACOB ERESTE
By: An Ordinary Man
Peace be upon you, peace be upon you,
Dear Mr. Jacob Ereste,
In the quiet silence and a thundering heart, allow me to write this letter to you—not as a form of protest, nor to seek praise or pity. I write because I don’t know how else to respond other than with this writing, which may be read or simply ignored.
I have a question, Sir. But it’s not an ordinary question. It’s a question born of the silence of the night and the confusion that hangs between my pulse and my reason:
Why, Sir, are you sending me all these letters?
Do you consider me a friend, or an enemy you secretly want to defeat with your pen and silent judgment?
I don’t know.
But I feel the need to respond in another form—with an honesty that I haven’t had the chance to express verbally. Because if I speak, my tongue might become nervous. But when I write, I can pour out my heart without fear of losing my way.
Mr. Jacob,
I’m nobody.
I’m just an ordinary man,
who lives off social assistance and the prayers of those who still remember my name.
I’m not a great writer. I’m not a great thinker. I’m just a word traveler,
who scrapes by on a secondhand cell phone worth five hundred thousand rupiah—a cell phone with a cracked screen,
but inside I try to weave the world together.
I’m known by many people, yes.
Sometimes I’m called to speak, sometimes I’m used as an example, sometimes I’m ridiculed.
But as for me… I don’t really know who I am yet.
I know how to write about other people: about stories, about wounds, about resistance.
But I’ve never managed to write about myself honestly.
Maybe because I’m afraid.
Or maybe because I’m ashamed of a reality too bitter to be narrative.
Mr. Jacob,
All of your writing is beautiful—in its own way.
I read it like someone reading news from another country: interesting, but it feels distant.
Some are right, some are wrong. But I don’t want to argue,
because I realize: in this world, anyone can speak.
But not everyone wants to listen.
My life—perhaps in the eyes of some—is tragic.
But I’m used to walking in silent loneliness.
I don’t have a computer, no proper home for my words.
I only have one thing: the intention to keep writing, even if all those writings eventually disappear,
because I never had time to save them.
And now, before you, I ask one small thing:
don’t misunderstand me.
I’m not a hater. I’m not a challenger.
I just want to survive in a world that so quickly forgets little people like me.
If you want to keep sending me your writings, I’ll read them.
If not, I’ll keep writing.
Because for me, writing is the only way to stay alive.
Finally, I offer my regards.
May you always be given health,
and hopefully someday we can understand each other
—not as two opposing parties,
but as two people who once believed in the power of words.
Wassalamu’alaikum warahmatullahi wabarakatuh.
Yours faithfully,
an ordinary man,
who writes with a finger and sincerity.
Indonesia, 16 July 2025
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