Today's schedule was to meet with several villagers who still weren't convinced to join the "Durian Guardians." One of them was Pak Joko, owner of a two-hectare durian orchard at the far end of the village, who had reportedly hesitated to sign the petition.
I revved my scooter through the mist, riding down the village road marred with tire tracks. From afar, I heard a rooster crowing, accompanied by the chatter of sparrows roosting on the bamboo fence. Occasionally, I glimpsed a silhouette sitting under the mango tree—perhaps someone reading the morning newspaper or simply enjoying the cool air.
After ten minutes, I arrived at Pak Joko's simple blue-doored home. Durian trees grew densely in his front yard, their trunks propped by bamboo poles, and their leaves still glistening with dew. I removed my jacket and knocked firmly on the wooden door.
"Pak Joko, it's Agung!" I called when a middle-aged woman—his wife, Bu Lina—peeked through the curtain.
"Come in, please," she said softly, as she often did. "Pak Joko is in the back."
I stepped into the living room, spacious enough for two rattan chairs and a small table. In one corner hung a family portrait: their late father standing proudly beside his wife and daughter-in-law in front of an ancient durian tree.
"Assalamualaikum, Pak," I greeted, bowing slightly.
"Wa'alaikumussalam, Mas Agung. Please have a seat," Pak Joko replied, emerging from the kitchen with a steaming glass of tea. His face looked firm, but I could detect hesitation in his eyes.
"Thank you, Pak," I said as I accepted the tea. "Sorry to disturb you so early. I just wanted to hear your thoughts on the petition and our plans."
Pak Joko sighed heavily, took a slow sip of tea, and set the glass down. "Agung, I've attended the meetings and I support the idea of the durian orchard, that's clear. But I still hesitate to sign the official petition."
I suppressed the urge to interrupt. "What makes you hesitate?"
He looked at me intently. "Everything is moving so fast. I'm afraid my orchard might face administrative risks. Other farmers say if we type an official petition, our data could be processed by outside parties. It might end up causing trouble with the subdistrict office or be misused for other purposes."
My heart pounded. This was a concern I hadn't anticipated. I closed my eyes briefly to absorb his words, then tried to reassure him.
"This petition is intended as a legal advocacy tool, to show the villagers' seriousness. My team and I have consulted with a legal NGO; they guaranteed that the data will be used only internally for advocacy. It won't leak to other agencies without our consent."
Pak Joko shook his head slowly. "But, Mas, sometimes agencies have their own interests. I've often heard stories about KTP data being taken to the capital, and then we end up being asked to pay higher taxes or forced into programs that don't suit our needs."
I raised my eyebrows, realizing the complexity of the situation. "That's a valid concern, Pak. Perhaps we need an additional confidentiality agreement or to withhold sensitive data—like KTP numbers—and simply collect wet-ink signatures on paper at the site."
Bu Lina added, "If it's only a manual signature on a petition sheet with the village stamp as assurance, more people will be comfortable."
I noted the idea. "All right, Pak. We can modify the petition format so it's just name, signature, and village stamp. We'll keep other data anonymous."
They exchanged glances, then Pak Joko took a deep breath. "Okay, I agree. But I want two things: first, I want to join the petition verification team so I can personally check each name and signature. Second, I want a guarantee that the petition's content won't be changed without another villagers' meeting."
I smiled with relief. "Agreed, Pak. We'll create an open verification process. Any villager may inspect the petition sheets at any time, and if there's a format change, we'll hold another village deliberation."
The atmosphere in the living room suddenly lightened, like morning fog parted by the sun. I finished my tea, then rose to my feet.
"Thank you very much, Pak Joko, Bu Lina. Those two points are very helpful. I'll coordinate with Bu Siti and the advocacy division immediately."
Pak Joko stood as well, giving me a firm handshake. "May this strengthen other villagers' trust."
I nodded. "Amen, Pak." I stepped outside, leaving behind the orchard bathed in gentle morning light.
From Pak Joko's house, I rode to Bu Tini's coffee stall, where the village PKK (Family Welfare Movement) mothers gathered every Tuesday afternoon. On her simple cart, Bu Tini arranged lupis and klepon cakes while chatting with three neighbors—Bu Lia, Bu Endah, and Bu Wulan. As I approached, they greeted me warmly but wore anxious expressions.
"What's going on, Mas Agung?" Bu Lia asked with a polite smile. "We heard there's a petition, right?"
"Yes, Bu Lia," I replied as I sat down. "We've modified the format according to Pak Joko's input. But I also want to hear directly from you mothers about any remaining concerns."
They exchanged glances. Finally, Bu Endah spoke in a soft voice. "To be honest, we're afraid that if we sign, we'll lose our freedom in the village. Once, our neighbors signed a palm oil farmers' petition and then were summoned by the headman repeatedly, forced to sign other agreements."
I jotted notes, feeling the weight of their concerns. "That is indeed troubling. How about this option for anonymity: you can sign on paper without your full name—just your signature and a sequential code that will be stored separately in a digital database accessible only by the advocacy team."
They looked thoughtful. In my mind, I knew this was tricky, but we needed to validate their support while safeguarding their privacy. I suggested a compromise:
1. Manual Petition: Each villager signs a physical sheet at the Village Hall, witnessed by two advocacy officers.
2. Unique Code: Each signature is assigned a unique code (e.g., A-01, A-02) without any printed name. The code and corresponding real identity are stored in the village safe, held by two trusted villagers.
3. Restricted Access: Only the advocacy team and the Durian Guardians' chair may open the safe, and only when required for legal advocacy.
Bu Wulan leaned forward and nodded slowly. "If that's the case, we'll feel safer. At least the data is protected."
Bu Tini clapped her hands lightly. "Great! Then I'll sign."
The three women laughed gently as they added their signatures on the prepared sheets. I bowed respectfully as I received their completed forms.
"Thank you, mothers," I said. "This is very helpful."
They beamed warmly as I got up to leave. My hand trembled slightly—not out of fear, but touched by the trust they had shown.
In the afternoon, I arrived at the Village Hall for a small meeting with the advocacy division and secretariat. Chandra was already there, alongside Bu Siti and several new members—Rio, Lia, and two farmer representatives. Spread across the table were the petition drafts, sheets of unique codes, and confidentiality agreement documents.
I opened the meeting: "How is the petition format modification progressing?"
Chandra nodded. "We've implemented all inputs. There are now two versions: a physical version without full names, and a digital version managed by the advocacy team. We've also prepared confidentiality agreements for each team member."
Rio added, "I've tested the database to store unique codes and actual data. It's secured with double passwords, and only Lia and I can unlock it."
I smiled with satisfaction. "Excellent! Now let's distribute it. We'll set up a petition desk at the Village Hall starting tomorrow morning, open from 07:00 to 12:00 and 15:00 to 18:00. Each farmer can come, sign, get the village stamp, and leave."
Bu Siti chimed in, "Add Saturdays as well, since many villagers rest only on that day. So four sessions a week in total."
I jotted it down. "All right! Each session will be staffed by two advocacy officers, one protocol officer, and one unique-code recorder. All staff will wear 'Durian Guardians' vests for easy identification."
Chandra nodded. "I'll also prepare a brief training module for staff on how to explain the format, answer common questions, and maintain data confidentiality."
I stood up and tapped the table. "Wonderful. With these steps, we hope that villagers who were previously hesitant will gradually feel secure and take a stand."
It was 18:00 when the meeting ended. We closed with a short prayer, then exchanged handshakes and encouraging words. The advocacy team's energy brimmed as though ready to face the next challenge.
On the way home, I glanced at the durian orchard, now dimly illuminated by streetlights. The silhouettes of trunks and leaves formed a mysterious challenge to protect them. In my heart, I made a vow:
"Every village stamp, every unique code, is proof of the villagers' love. And I will guard that trust as firmly as a durian tree's deep roots."
That night, I wrote in my diary:
June 5, 2025
– Visited Pak Joko: agreed on new petition format
– Discussion with PKK mothers: unique codes & data confidentiality solution
– Advocacy division meeting: implemented petition desk and schedule
A small hope today: villagers who once hesitated now signed with relieved hearts. May this subtle approach spread throughout Durian Village.
I closed the book, turned off the light, and gazed at the clear night sky.