From Cradles to First Steps: A Heartfelt Journey Through the First Ten Years of Unforgettable Joy and Wonder

The first ten years of my life were the happiest

The first ten years of my life living in the small town of Pangkalan Brandan, the southeasternmost part of North Sumatra, unfolded like a charming storybook, brimming with joyful memories and friendly faces. Lately, I’ve found myself reminiscing about those innocent days, the sights, sounds, and people that colored my childhood. Looking back, it’s clear that the past two decades have ushered in a whirlwind of change. Norms, lifestyles, and the fabric of our culture have been reshaped, and the way we connect has evolved dramatically.

But amidst this transformation, I do miss the simplicity of those early mornings. Gone are the days when families stirred awake at the early dawn when no blaring alarms from smartphones were needed. Each member played a vital role in the dawn: Mother, a cooking maestro, preparing delicious breakfasts and ironing her children’s school uniforms. Father, a dedicated caretaker, ensured the motorcycle gleamed and the chickens had their fill. The eldest child, entrusted with the responsibility of drawing water from the well, diligently filling the bathing tub.

I remember when my childhood ritual revolved around a TV screen, a bowl of steaming “Indomie”, and the vibrant world of cartoons, a perfect prelude before departing to school on foot. At that time, cars rarely roamed the streets. As the clock neared seven, my mom’s voice would echo from the kitchen, a gentle reminder for me and my siblings to rush to school.

Every Monday, schools start after the “Upacara Bendera”, the mandatory flag-raising ceremony. Students, teachers, and all staff gather in the schoolyard, observing a moment of silence for the fallen heroes and paying respect to the flag. The ceremony usually ends at 7.30. If the principal does not give a long, boring speech during the ceremony, the ceremony may end earlier. Every student’s favorite moment.

At 10 a.m., a wave of excitement sweeps through the school as the bell rings, signaling the start of recess. For 15 minutes, the schoolyard transforms into a temporary vibrant playground. Boys kick up a lively football game, while girls play the main karet, they twirl and jump in rhythmic harmony with their jump ropes made of tied rubber bands.

The more energetic students dash around the class like beyblades, creating a mess. Inside the classroom, si Tengil, the mischievous student might grab a piece of chalk and playfully toss it at an introverted classmate who is taking a nap. Meanwhile, the foodies aim for their favorite snack stall, eager to indulge in a savory somay drenched in tomato sauce. As the bell rings again, signaling the end of recess, the foodies race back to class, sometimes with remnants of their snack staining their white uniforms, a testament to the joys of a well-earned break.

In late July, excitement appears as each village forms a committee to prepare for the “Tujuh Belasan” (Seventeenth of August) celebrations, a joyous occasion to commemorate Indonesia’s Independence Day. It is arguably the most anticipated and lively event of the year for all Indonesians. Every resident eagerly joins in, decorating the village’s main gate and painting it with vibrant red and white colors. Local artists would contribute by creating murals with patriotic themes in various corners of the village. For two weeks, the airwaves are filled with the melodies of national songs, setting the stage for the “hari-H”, the grand celebration.

On the morning of the seventeenth of August, I would be awakened by my mother as early as 4 a.m. In the pre-pandemic era, I remember it was customary for all students, teachers, and employees to participate in the “Upacara Tujuh Belasan”, the Independence Day Flag Ceremony, held at their respective schools and offices. I would get ready and head to school with my fellow students, eager to be a part of this momentous occasion.

Once the ceremony concluded, children would return home and immerse themselves in the festivities organized in their respective villages. Traditional games such as “Panjat Pinang” (pole climbing), “Balap Kelereng” (marble racing), “Balap Karung” (sack race), and “Bakiak” (wooden clog racing) were the most popular among all. While the rewards may not have been as extravagant as they are today, the essence and level of participation in the early 2000s were unmatched.

In those days, there were no gadgets to keep children apart. We would all gather, play, and learn together. As the afternoon sun arrives, the children would converge on a muddy field, eager to play “Bola Kampung”, the traditional soccer. A pair of sandals would serve as the goalposts, and the child with the largest build would take on the role of the goalkeeper. There was no distinction between rich and poor; the world of children was undoubtedly, an egalitarian one. Wealthy parents did not indulge their children with luxuries. When they played together in the mud, they all returned home with dirty clothes. All the children walked home with wide smiles and hearts filled with joy.

The time for graduation came, and the children began to part ways. Some moved to the city to pursue brighter prospects. The village began to quieten as the disruption of technology arrived. The children of the village grew up and no longer wanted to stay in the village. The atmosphere was no longer the same. Tall buildings had been erected on the muddy field where we used to play football. No more buffalos foraging the grass in our fields. My school had closed and was now being used as a Navy lookout post and dormitory. The city became a magnet for young people living in the 2020s.

Many changes have taken place in the past two decades. Nevertheless, for me, the first ten years of my life were always the happiest.

Thank you for reading.