Amma… am I weak
A soft question in the dark... and the beginning of healing.
I didn’t say it out loud.
But I whispered it, somewhere deep inside.
When the world got too loud,
too sharp,
too much.
“Who told you that, my brave girl?”
A voice answered —
soft and strong, like wind through trees.
“Who made you doubt the power of your tender heart?”
“They say I cry too easily.
They call me dramatic, sensitive, too much.”
She smiled — I could feel it.
A smile like warm light through closed eyelids.
“Let them.
Tears are not weakness, my love.
They are truth rising to the surface.
They are the body saying:
‘I feel. I care. I am alive.’”
“But I fall apart sometimes.
I can't hold it all in.
Isn’t that a flaw?”
“No.
Falling apart is not failing.
It's just pausing.
It’s giving your heart room to breathe.
Even stars collapse before they shine again.”
“But people laugh at me, Amma.
I’m tired of being the soft one.”
She didn’t rush to fix it.
She let the silence settle, like a blanket.
Then she said, quietly:
“Let’s learn, together.
To name the feelings.
To sit with them without shame.
To breathe through them, not bury them.
To let them pass like waves —
without letting them drown what’s beautiful in you.”
“But will it ever stop hurting?”
“Maybe not always.
But it won’t always feel the same.
You’ll grow strong —
not by building walls,
but by holding yourself through every storm.”
“Is it okay to cry?”
“It’s more than okay.
It’s human.
It’s sacred.”
“What if they still call me a crybaby?”
“Let them.
We don’t harden our hearts to earn their approval.
We don’t wear armor that silences our soul.
We stay soft.
We stay real.
We stay kind.”
Her voice faded slowly.
And when I opened my eyes...
There was no Amma.
Just the soft hum of night.
The gentle sound of my own breathing.
And my arms —
wrapped tightly around my own body.
I was the mother I needed tonight.
The one who didn’t shush the tears.
The one who didn’t turn away.
The one who stayed.
I held the little girl in me
with all the love she never got.
And for once...
That was enough
About the Creator
Echoes of the Soul
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Japan’s Occupation of Indonesia: When “Asian Liberation” Turned Into Systematic Brutality
During the chaos of World War II, as Southeast Asia became a battleground for competing empires, Japan entered Indonesia under a slogan that appeared revolutionary at the time: Asia for Asians. To a population that had endured more than three centuries of Dutch colonial rule, the collapse of European authority in 1942 seemed, at first, like the dawn of a new era. It was not. What followed was not liberation, but a militarized occupation that proved more violent, more intrusive, and in many ways more destructive than the colonial system it replaced. Within three years, Japan reshaped Indonesian society through fear, forced labor, starvation, and cultural coercion—leaving scars that remain deeply embedded in the nation’s collective memory. Indonesia was, and remains, a predominantly Muslim society. Islam was not only a religion, but the backbone of social organization, education, and moral authority. Mosques, scholars, and Islamic associations connected villages across the archipelago, forming networks capable of mobilizing large segments of the population. To the Japanese military administration, this was not spirituality—it was a potential threat. From the earliest months of occupation, Islam was treated as a security issue. Religious schools were closed or tightly restricted. Sermons were censored, and imams were required to submit their speeches for approval. Major Islamic organizations were placed under constant surveillance, not because they opposed Japan at the time, but because the occupation understood that faith-based unity could quickly turn into organized resistance. The most catastrophic policy imposed on Indonesians was the forced labor system known as Romusha. Entire communities were emptied overnight. Young men were taken by force and transported to work sites deep in jungles, mountains, and remote construction zones. They were used to build roads, military facilities, and railways under inhumane conditions—without adequate food, medical care, or rest. Death was routine. Starvation, disease, beatings, and exhaustion claimed hundreds of thousands of lives, and some estimates suggest the number may exceed one million. There were no proper records. To be taken as a Romusha laborer was, in effect, to disappear. One of the most infamous projects was the Burma–Thailand “Death Railway.” While international narratives often focus on Allied prisoners of war, far less attention has been given to Indonesian Muslim laborers, who constituted a larger portion of the workforce and suffered even higher mortality—without names, graves, or recognition. Women were subjected to a different form of violence. The Japanese military established a widespread system of sexual slavery known as the “comfort women” system. Thousands of Indonesian Muslim girls were abducted from their villages and confined in military facilities, where they were repeatedly abused. For decades, silence surrounded this crime—not because it was unknown, but because shame, fear, and social pressure buried the victims’ voices. Economic life collapsed under the demands of Japan’s total war strategy. Rice harvests were confiscated to supply the military, transforming food into a weapon of control. By 1944 and 1945, famine spread across large parts of Indonesia. Villagers survived on wild plants, while child mortality rates soared. Hunger was not incidental—it was systemic. Any attempt at dissent was met with extreme punishment. Religious scholars who spoke out were executed publicly, imprisoned, or buried alive. Education was restructured to glorify the Japanese emperor, portrayed as a divine figure. Teaching Arabic and the Qur’an was restricted, and children were forced to recite imperial slogans that directly contradicted their religious beliefs. When Japan surrendered in August 1945, it left behind a devastated nation—exhausted, hungry, and traumatized. Yet paradoxically, this period of intense suffering accelerated Indonesia’s path toward independence. Within days of Japan’s defeat, Indonesian leaders declared sovereignty, having learned firsthand that no foreign power’s slogan could substitute for genuine self-determination. Japan’s occupation of Indonesia stands as a stark historical lesson: political narratives of “liberation” can conceal systems of exploitation and mass violence. And for Indonesia’s Muslim population, the cost of that deception was paid in blood, dignity, and generations of silence.
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The Scream by Edvard Munch is one of my favourite paintings
The Scream by Edvard Munch is another one of my favourite paintings that is alongside of that of Nighthawks. I have a shirt with The Scream 😱 by Edvard Munch. This painting is absolutely brilliant and amazing. It is a contradiction in a way warm colours but dark and deep subject matter.
By Revista Mikoabout 14 hours ago in Art
Comments (1)
This is so touching. It made me think about how we should embrace our emotions. It's a great reminder that being soft and real is more important than others' opinions.