“If you don’t like where you are, move!” they say.

But the trees stand still, unbothered.
They do not book tickets, pack bags, or rent new skins to impress their neighbors.
They simply grow in the same soil, year after year.

And do we admire the trees for staying? No.
We glorify movement instead.

In some cultures in Indonesia, like the Bataknese or the Padang people, young adults are expected to leave—to wander to distant lands, preferably a big city, work hard, and somehow carve out a life of success and wealth. At least, that’s the plan.

To move is to prove one’s strength, to adapt, to conquer.
And if this brave young man does succeed, he will return home—not just as a son, but as a symbol.
He will step onto familiar soil, bringing with him the weight of expectation and the proof of his achievements.

For most Indonesians, returning home is sacred. We call it mudik.
During Eid al-Fitr, millions move at once, a tidal wave of homecomings, all rushing back to family.
It is chaotic—no other word fits.

And mudik, too, has evolved.

Once, it was about returning home. Now, it is about arriving in style.
A car too big, a phone too new, a smile too rehearsed.
If you have nothing to show, why come back at all?

To go home is an obligation. To arrive in style, an expectation.
But what if one has nothing to display?

Then one can rent it.

Surely no one will notice if he hesitates when asked for his car’s license plate?
Surely no one will question why he fumbles with the latest iPhone?
And if he stutters when naming the company he “works at,” the proof is in his bag—
a lanyard, carefully peeking out.

If we had never left, we would never need to return.
No first-class seats, no borrowed luxury, no staged reunions.
Just roots, sinking deeper into soil that has known us forever.

Lately, I have begun to envy trees.
To move with the wind but stay in the roots.
To be surrounded by those who have known me all my life.
To grow deeper for water, to stretch higher for sunlight.

Trees do not prove their worth.
They do not perform success.
And yet, they thrive—silent, strong, unshaken by the winds of expectation.

Yes, these limbs of mine are strong, and as a runner, I, too, believe in movement.
But I am learning that not all motion is progress.
Perhaps the greatest journey is not in how far we go
but in how deeply we grow.

Cheers,

Karin Sabrina

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