Redmoon

Pagi itu aku duduk di kursi plastik biru di kantor desa, dikelilingi kalender Alfamart dan foto presiden. Di depanku, seorang bapak bercerita panjang soal ritual adat sebelum musim tanam. Aku angguk-angguk, pura-pura nyaman. Tapi yang kupikirkan cuma satu: Anjir, pengen ngerokok. Banget. Sebagai perempuan kota yang nyasar ke kampung demi data antropologi, aku tahu harus jaga sikap. Senyum manis. Pakaian sopan. Bicara pelan. Tapi craving nikotin ini… kok rasanya lebih sakral dari apapun yang diceritakan bapak itu. Aku bisa bayangin reaksi warga kalau aku nyalain sebatang di depan kantor desa: “Hah? Cewek ngerokok?” “Kasian, anak kota tapi rusak.” “Udah pintar, sayang ya begitu.” Dan di situlah letak dilema kita, perempuan yang hidup di dua dunia. Di satu sisi: feminis, bebas, urban. Di sisi lain: tamu, peneliti, dan—mau gak mau—perempuan baik-baik versi lokal. Craving ini gak cuma tentang nikotin. Ini tentang ruang. Tentang batas. Tentang berapa banyak diri yang boleh kita bawa ke kampu...

I couldn’t help but wonder… Am I hard to love, or are they just too soft to stay? People say things. Like, “You’re not single because you’re not pretty.” “You’re too pretty. Tapi juga terlalu banyak maunya.” “You’re demanding, keras kepala, and… a little bit evil.” Even my little sister once said, “You’re like… evil in heels.” Lucu sih. Tapi agak nyelekit. Yes, I admit I’m intense. I know what I want. I’m not gonna pretend to be clueless just to make someone else comfortable. Tapi lucunya, waktu aku jatuh cinta… aku berubah total. I become soft. Kayak anak anjing kecil yang ngikut terus. Kayak cewek yang tadinya fierce, tapi mendadak bucin. I crave the small things digandeng di parkiran mall, dengerin cerita yang receh, nonton film bodoh sambil pelukan. I’m not a black cat. I’m not a cold mysterious girl. I’m a puppy when I love someone. Dumb, loyal, and ridiculously cute. But somehow… it always ends the same. Aku yang terluka. Aku yang merasa too much. Karena ternyata banyak orang cum...

I couldn’t help but wonder… Do some men text us because they miss us… or just miss having access? There’s a particular kind of man. Let’s call him the midnight poet. He doesn’t speak in full sentences or real intentions just sudden DMs, digital breadcrumbs, and an occasional “Where are you?” that somehow feels romantic and ridiculous at the same time. You know the type. He once left your life without warning, maybe even hit “unfollow” like it was a breakup. You let it go. Grew your nails, your mindset, your entire life. And then, like magic—or bad WiFi—he’s back. No apology. No context. Just… a follow. A like. A moment. A message. Recently, I ran into one of these ghosts in the most ironic of places: family cake duty. It was innocent. Civil. We both pretended we hadn’t once known each other intimately in silence. You know that secret kind of closeness that lives between what you show and what you hide. We said hi. We smiled. We pretended not to remember. But our eyes? They remembered e...

Cravings, Crying, and K-Dramas: My Body’s Monthly Chaos Parade By: Me, fighting for my life… and my last fried chicken skin I couldn’t help but wonder… Is PMS just a biological glitch or the universe’s way of letting women fully feel in HD? Last night, I became someone else. A hungry, emotional, snack-seeking, drama-bingeing goddess of chaos. I ordered so much GrabFood that the app probably thought I was hosting a party. I wasn’t. It was just me… and my hormones… and a strong, inexplicable need for tteokbokki, Thai tea, and mie ayam in one sitting. My family? They knew. The whispers started: “Pasti mau dapet tuh.” And they were right. Because when I’m about to menstruate, I don’t just feel it I become it. I cry at toothpaste commercials. I yell at a spoon that fell. I romanticize my own sadness like I’m in a slow-mo music video. And today? Boom. Period. Game over. Or maybe… game on. Because here’s the thing this monthly meltdown isn’t weakness. It’s proof. Proof that I’m in tune. That ...

I couldn’t help but wonder… Is it really “a man’s world” or just a poorly lit room we forgot to redecorate? In Indonesia, you don’t have to look far to see who holds the mic. As of 2024, women make up only 21% of the national parliament. In the business world? Just 5.7% of top leadership roles in major companies are held by women. And don’t even get me started on religious or customary leadership structures where women are often expected to speak only when spoken to, and preferably after making the coffee. Meanwhile, women are everywhere on the frontlines of community organizing, running small economies from their kitchens, and holding families together with emotional duct tape. We are working twice as hard for half the recognition, all while being told to be sabar, lembut, dan tidak banyak bicara. Well surprise. We’re talking now. We walk into meetings where men casually call us ibu-ibu like we’re all the same breed of harmless. We pitch ideas only to have them mansplained back to us....

Sebuah Perenungan Tentang Aku dan Papa Aku dan Papa adalah dua batu yang tak pernah benar-benar bertemu, tapi saling membentuk bentang alam yang sama. Ia tidak pernah mengajarkanku cara mencintai secara lembut, tapi ia menunjukkan bagaimana berpikir dengan kepala dingin di tengah dunia yang gaduh. Dan sejak kecil, aku belajar mencintai bukan dengan pelukan, tapi dengan debat. Papa adalah mantan aktivis. Di masa kanakku, ia adalah suara yang keras di dalam rumah yang sepi. Ia tidak pernah bertanya padaku, “Apa kabar hari ini?” tapi ia akan dengan serius mengajakku mendiskusikan politik luar negeri, sistem ketimpangan kelas, dan mengapa revolusi tak boleh setengah hati. Ia tidak menuntunku ke dapur untuk mengajari cara membuat teh manis, tapi ia duduk di sampingku, mengajarkan bagaimana berpikir radikal. Dan begitulah aku tumbuh. Bukan sebagai anak perempuan manis yang mengenakan pita dan bermain boneka, tapi sebagai versi kecil dari seorang pria yang lebih banyak bicara tentang ide dari...