Less than a month staying in Madura, I was left alone by Hafi. Due to illness, Hafi had to return to Jember for quite a long time, so it is unknown what happened next; to return to the lodge or stop. I had to accept the reality and be strong in living my life apart from my family, even without friends from Jember. No, I must be able to live alone on an island that I have never visited before. I was alone, a student from outside Madura at the Nurul Islam pesantren at that time.
Family doesn’t have. There is no family living and comes from the salt island. The days are always lonely. Quiet. Away from family and childhood playmates. Feelings of discomfort began to stab. When the situation was like that, I wanted to meet my family in Jember but was afraid to go home. Fear of not getting to the destination because they have not had the experience of riding the bus alone. The end has an end; I choose to concentrate and return to the original intention of coming to Madura; li thalibil ‘ilmi bi ridlallahi Ta’ala. Seek knowledge with the hope of the pleasure of Allah, the Highest Essence.
I often burst into tears when I realized how complicated life was and thought of my family. I’ve been sobbing many times because of the unbelievably stinging pain. I don’t like asking friends for help at the cottage. But, again, I remember my mother, who was always there to take care of me when I was sick.
As a student who is very far from home, I often experience late deliveries. Not just days, but months. I have been short of supplies for months. I called my family many times. I have repeatedly reported that the previous shipments are now gone. For months I waited for the shipment, but it never arrived.
Finally, I was determined to find a job. The work of watering Pak Hasim’s tobacco in the rice fields north of his house. Mr Hasim’s rice field is behind the son’s Aliyah Madrasah building. Every morning bakda after reciting the turats book, I istikamah every day watering the tobacco. My body, which was still small and weak, often staggered as if almost collapsing when carrying the weight of the water on a large tin made of zinc. And as usual, after watering the tobacco, Pak Hasim’s wife gave me a plate of rice with anchovies and a little dry chilli sauce. My stomach was blocked, and I could use it to do activities for one day. For about a month, I ate one meal a day and night.
I also remember that I couldn’t close my eyes one night because my stomach was growling all day; I didn’t eat a single grain of rice. Finally, forced to get up and walk to the kitchen students. At first glance, I found a familiar caster sitting on the stove. I immediately went to the next room to find and wake up my friend, the caster owner.
“Akhi, yajuzu thing ‘alayya an asta’ira qidraka? (May I borrow your caster. Can I, right?)” I asked Buwanto Masaran Bluto.
“Na’am, tafadlal! (Yes, please!).”
“Aina satathbakh? (Where do you want to cook?).” he asked, rubbing his eyes.
“Fil mathbakh, God willing (God willing, in the kitchen).”