A Pause in Motion

24 October 2024

Dear Surabaya,

Hi. I never expected you. And honestly, I wasn't sure what to expect after almost a decade away from Asia. But here we are, four months in, with just a few days left, and you've given me a different sense of place—one I'm still trying to fully understand. You feel like a pause, but also like motion, like a rest-stop on a journey that never really ends. In you, I found something different, a sense of place that is both fleeting and permanent.

You're hot, Surabaya. Brutally hot. My migraines remind me of that. My sweat glands will never forget you. But somehow, you make me forget about the discomfort.

I am a nomad. I move from place to place, and perhaps you know that well. But for a time, my neighbours in Plampitan anchored me home, the kind that doesn't ask for permanence, but offers comfort in the now. Kampung Plampitan became my rest—a place where I could stop, breathe, and to remember what stillness feels like. Maybe that's what being a nomad really is—finding little homes in places you don't expect to stay for long.

You let me borrow that feeling, and I will carry it with me.

At UNAIR, I found a space to grow… mostly with the people who gave me not only physical space to work but space to rethink myself here, as a scholar, as a Southeast Asian scholar. The conversations with friends, acquaintances, colleagues—those who shared in the quiet and the loud moments alike. There were days and nights spent in kampungs, streets, random cafes, university rooms, desa, buses, the house of a friend, and sometimes in places I can't even remember. Or maybe it's just that some moments are too precious to hold onto fully.

I'll miss the strangers, too. The random conversations with people I'll never meet again—Grab drivers, cashiers, street vendors; and the times I pretended to be Indonesian—my awful, clumsy Bahasa Indonesia forgiven with a smile and a laugh.

And your food, Surabaya, they brought me happiness. My favourite? Ceker—no matter how strange it seemed to others, I loved it. Your nasi pecel, tempe, singkong, sate, and all other dishes that made me forget I can't handle spicy food. I'm trying! And yes, two allergic reactions to udang, and I'm still here, loving every bite.

I'm still scared of your motorcycles, though. But maybe someday my heart will learn to be less scared. And yes, your ghosts—hantu and kuntilanak—they also scare me more than I'd like to admit. But perhaps I have quite learned to co-exist with them already. This is a work progress for now, but it will always remain a part of our story.

There's no one way to remember you, Surabaya. You're an ocean—vast, deep, and beautiful. If I had to do it all over again, I'd find my way back to you. I want to stand under your skies again, to hear your voices, to walk your streets. And, of course to meet your people—the ones who made me feel like I belonged, if only for a little while.

Until then, I will hold you in my heart, a place that is neither here nor there, but everywhere in between.

With love,

A Nomad