By: Dr. Muhammad Uhaib As’ad, M.Sc
SOME journeys have never been recorded on national maps. The sirens of power do not herald them; they are not greeted by red carpets nor covered by cameras. They are silent, personal, and often the most decisive in the direction of human inner history.
Kezia Syifa, in this article, is not just a name, but a symbol of a generation that chose to walk away from the bustling center of Konoha, leaving behind something ancient: the placenta buried in the land of her birth.
The placenta is not merely a biological remnant. In many Indonesian cultures, it is a cosmic bond between humans and the land—a marker of origin, identity, and history. So when Kezia Syifa left Konoha, what she left behind was not just an administrative region, but an inner connection with the land she once called home. It was there that prayers and tears met, not as weakness, but as the most honest form of resistance.
Konoha, in this narrative, is a land fond of producing hope but stingy in providing a future. A land adept at speaking of progress but stumbling in providing justice. A land that promises big dreams while secretly burying the small dreams of its citizens. Kezia’s placenta was buried in the same ground as promises that were never kept.
Kezia Syifa is the portrait of a silent adventurer. She didn’t leave because she wanted to, but because she had to. She left because her breathing space was narrowing. Her conscience was overwhelmed by the echoes of power; meritocracy was defeated by patronage, and the future was often determined not by capacity, but by proximity. She left not out of hatred for Konoha, but because of a love betrayed for too long.
At this point, prayer became the last remaining language. A parent’s prayer, uttered with a trembling voice. A prayer never included in development statistics or counted in the economic growth index.
It is a prayer born of the bitter realization that this country has not been fair enough to its own children. Tears accompanied Kezia’s steps—not as lamentation, but as a testimony to history.
The land of Konoha often interprets the departure of its best children as “normal.” They use fancy terms: global mobility, diaspora, or talent migration. Yet, behind these academic labels lies an unhealed collective wound and structural failures that remain unacknowledged. Kezia is not simply an individual who left; she is a social symptom, a loud alarm bell for an unequal system.
Ironically, Konoha is fond of celebrating those who succeed abroad, while forgetting to ask: Why did they have to leave to be appreciated? Why wasn’t the soil that buried their placentas fertile enough to foster hope? Herein lies the tragedy: the land takes pride in the results but neglects the causes.
Kezia’s lonely adventure is a mirror for the younger generation of Konoha, living between two paradoxes. On one hand, they are inundated with narratives of nationalism; on the other, they are confronted with limited opportunities, the high cost of justice, and the fragility of protection. Nationalism ultimately becomes an empty slogan if the state fails to be a just mother to its children.
Kezia’s placenta, buried in Konoha, is a symbol of a bond that can never truly be severed. No matter how far she travels, the land still calls. But that call is now mixed with bitterness, for the same land has repeatedly wounded her hopes.
“Beyond imagination” is the perfect phrase to describe this absurdity. How could a country rich in resources be so lacking in empathy? How could a country busy building lighthouses forget to repair its citizens’ leaking homes?
Kezia didn’t bring excessive anger; she brought silence. A silence more dangerous for Konoha than screams, because silence is a sign of mature despair. When young people no longer feel angry and choose to leave quietly, that is when the country truly loses its future.
This writing is not a romanticization of migration, nor a glorification of escape. It is a moral critique of Konoha—a critique born from a personal story but rooted in social structures. The state should not simply exist to collect taxes and demand loyalty; it must be present when its citizens need justice, protection, and equal opportunity.
The prayer that accompanies Kezia is a prayer that Konoha will one day improve. Her tears are a reminder that development without humanity is just an empty building. If Kezia were to return one day, she must not return to the same country that buried its citizens’ hopes along with their roots.
Ultimately, this silent adventurer teaches one important lesson: love for one’s country doesn’t always mean staying. Sometimes, love means daring to leave so that distance can become a mirror for the country left behind.***
Author Profile: Dr. Muhammad Uhaib As’ad, M.Si, is an Academic, Director of Political Economy and Public Policy Studies of South Kalimantan, and President of the International Institute of Influencers Indonesia. Live in Banjarmasin.
