A Different Sunday Morning
This Sunday morning, as usual, the sun was shining brightly, touching my skin with its hot rays that made the air feel even thicker and stickier. After my morning apple, I slowly walked towards the yard, still lost in thoughts about what had just happened. In recent weeks, an optimistic feeling that I had never experienced before began to approach me. A new hope was growing, even though it was just a small glimmer of light at the end of this dark tunnel.
But still, that hope existed. At least for now.
"Sarah, do you know? There's a new program here," said Dina, the friend in my cell who sat next to me, pouting her lips.
I turned to look at her, frowning. "What program is that?" I replied, still a bit confused by what she had just said.
"A self-defense silat training. Everyone has to join, they say it's to combat bullying among ourselves, to make us stronger, so we can fight back if anyone attacks," Dina said with a cynical tone, as if she didn't believe in this new policy.
I paused for a moment, trying to process her words. "Self-defense?" I frowned even more deeply. "What kind of idea is that? Will it even work?" I thought. I knew very well how things were here—where the weak would always become victims. In the past, I had often seen stronger people abusing their power, crushing those who couldn't fight back. Even I, when I first arrived on this prison island, had been a victim of that game, where the weak were oppressed, toyed with, and bullied by the strong, a natural law without any norms.
"It seems like a pointless effort. But it's okay, we can try. There's no harm in trying," I replied half-jokingly, although deep inside, doubt still lingered. There was a big question in my mind. Could this work? But I knew there was no harm in giving it a shot.
That morning, I stood in the middle of the prison yard, following the instructions of the officer, who also acted as the self-defense instructor. Silat, which was no stranger to me since I had learned it in the past, now felt different. There was a tension in the movements we made. Every step, every kick, and every punch seemed to carry a weight heavier than just physical training. But even though I almost couldn't believe in this idea, there was something within me that felt drawn to it. This might be the right way to fight—not just to fight others, but to fight the fear that had haunted me all along.
Exhausting Martial Arts Training
That Sunday morning, the sun's rays were merciless, piercing every corner of the isolated prison island. The air was hot and sticky, filled with the smell of sweat from the prisoners practicing martial arts. They moved fiercely, each with a face full of determination, while the prison officer, who also acted as a trainer, stood at the side, watching our every move with a keen eye.
This was a new, unprecedented experiment. A radical step taken by the authorities to stop the violence that had long plagued this prison. In an effort to overcome oppression between prisoners, where the weak were always victims of the strong, they tried to replace the old methods of control with something more structured—namely, martial arts, to strengthen the weaker prisoners.
Every inmate, without exception, was required to undergo self-defense training. From pencak silat to taekwondo, from boxing to jiu-jitsu, all martial arts disciplines were studied with a clear goal: to ensure that every prison inmate had equal physical abilities. With great hope, the authorities believed that no one would dare to oppress others, and that the perpetrators of violence would face opponents who could match them.
Initially, of course, not everyone accepted this idea gracefully. Some inmates even ridiculed the program, seeing it as a ridiculous policy, a form of entertainment for prison officials who simply wanted to monitor them more closely. Meanwhile, others—especially those who were stronger—felt threatened. They had been accustomed to being the unchallenged rulers of this island, and martial arts training would only undermine their dominance.
However, perhaps as time went by, slowly, changes would begin to emerge. Prisoners who were initially cynical and dismissed this program would begin to feel its impact. This tiring and physically challenging training made us all realize that it wasn't only the body that had to be trained, but also the mind and heart. Discipline, patience, and self-control became important lessons that we began to learn.
The instructors, most of whom were prison officers with solid martial arts backgrounds, pushed us to our limits. There was no "weak" here. Everyone was forced to overcome their fears, conquer bodily weaknesses, and discover the strength hidden within themselves. I, who was initially doubtful, now feel that something is starting to change.
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Friendship in Adversity
These challenges do not come easily. Pain, fatigue and frustration often test us all mentally. However, through those struggles, we began to form a strong bond. We, who were once at odds because of the crimes we committed out there, now find common ground in our struggles here. On the practice mat, we are no longer a murderer, a thief, or a cheater. We are partners, fellow warriors seeking to master our bodies, and in many ways, master our lives.
Exhausting physical exercises took us out of our daily routine of hatred and violence. We learn to not only fight with our hands, but also with our hearts. We discovered that true strength comes not only from the muscles of the body, but also from peace of mind and the power to control oneself.
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Dominance that is starting to fade
These changes don't just happen in the exercise class. Outside, in the open prison yard, the atmosphere began to be different. Those who were once the undisputed rulers of this island now have to face opponents who are their equals. Those who once oppressed must now share space with those of us who are braver, stronger, and more skilled.
Violence does not suddenly disappear. There are still occasional fights, there are still tensions hidden beneath the surface. However, there are clear differences. The feeling of fear that once haunted us is now starting to be replaced by a new sense of respect. The respect that comes from realizing that anyone can grow, anyone can be strong, anyone can learn to be better.
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Slow Transformation
The island prison, once known as a place full of violence and despair, is starting to change. No change can happen overnight, and this process is far from complete. However, what is certain is that the seeds of change have been sown, and although the journey has been long and challenging, small steps towards peace and healing have begun.
Martial arts training, which was originally only seen as a way to overcome violence, is now more than just that. This has become a way for us to atone for our sins, to redeem ourselves. Every movement, every punch, and every kick is a step toward self-control, toward a deeper understanding of who we are and what we have done.
Each week that passes brings us closer to our better selves. And although we don't know what will happen after we leave this prison, one thing is certain: we will emerge not only with stronger bodies, but also with stronger souls, better prepared to face the outside world in a different way.
Meanwhile, for those who do not believe that change is possible, who still see themselves as victims or perpetrators, they will soon realize that this island is no longer a place they can simply rule. Every day here teaches us that true strength is not about oppressing, but about lifting ourselves and others up. If once this prison was a place that eroded hope, now it is a place where hope regenerates—in every blow, in every workout, in every step forward.
And for those of us who have fought hard
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Gradually, we began to understand and forgive each other
Time passed slowly, it had been six months since our first meeting. We understand each other more and more, the pain we slowly recognize and accept. Slowly, we began to understand and forgive each other, even without words. In the cold of prison life, I began to see her as a mother figure, someone I never had for twelve years. He, on the other hand, seemed to be starting to think of me as his child. There was hope emerging from beneath the regret in his eyes, a hope I'd never felt from anyone else here.
On the other hand, I knew she still had the instincts of a judge trained from years in the courtroom, she began to admire my beliefs. I can feel it myself. For me, that truth still stands firmly in my heart. I'm innocent, I'm innocent.
When the tragedy happened, I was only eighteen years old, still very young, innocent. Twelve years have passed, and all the efforts I have tried, appeals, cassation and my first request for clemency, have all been rejected. Now I am almost thirty years old, but I believe there is still a future, full of dreams and hopes, even though those previous aspirations and dreams have long been dashed in this prison.
After tiring, heavy martial arts training, I sat in the corner of the prison, on a thin mat that was starting to wear out, looking at Madam Hera who sat in the other corner. Her face looked much softer now, although the sadness never completely disappeared from his eyes.
Six months had passed since we first shared this space, and although we rarely spoke, his presence was a comforting one. I never imagined that in this prison I would find a figure who unexpectedly began to fill the empty space in my heart, a space that I had never found since my mother left.
On this prison island, with its hot and humid tropical climate, long hair is a burden. Trying to lighten the mood and try to get to know her better, I offered to help her cut his hair. I've gotten pretty good at styling and cutting hair over the years here; skills I learned to add a little comfort to this harsh place.
Madam Hera agreed to my offer with a slow nod, and I asked the officer for permission to borrow scissors. In this prison, scissors are prohibited items, they can only be used with permission and strict supervision. After the officer watched and handed me the scissors, we sat under a shady tree in the corner of the prison yard. A warm wind blew, making the leaves above us rustle gently, while I began to carefully trim Madam Hera's hair.
As her hair fell slowly, our conversation flowed deeper than I had ever imagined.
"Do you remember, Sarah?" she said suddenly, his voice almost drowned in the wind. "When you first went to trial. At that time I only knew one thing: you had to be punished. This heart was closed to hearing anything from you." There was bitterness in his voice, and for the first time, I saw a flash of regret in his eyes.
I took a deep breath, trying to hold back the emotions that had been buried for so long. "I remember, Mom. Your words at that time haunted me for years." I stopped for a moment, calmed myself, then continued, "But you also have to know... I never meant to harm Doni. I lost her too."
There was a long silence between us. I felt Madam Hera starting to absorb my words, even though she was still looking at the leaves in front of her, avoiding my gaze.
After a while, she whispered, "At that time, I was blinded by pain. I felt that… if someone were to blame, maybe I would be less devastated. I just wanted you to feel the same pain."
Her words stunned me. It felt strange, hearing confessions from someone who used to be so harsh and unattainable. Slowly, I trimmed the ends of his messy hair again, trying to understand the wound behind all that hatred.
"Mother lost her only son, I understand," I said quietly. "But maybe if we could have talked like this first, things would have been different."
Madam Hera was silent, then finally turned to me with a gaze that was much gentler than before. "That may be true, Sarah. But now… what else can we do? We're here, with the rest of our lives just waiting to run out."
We continued the conversation, both admitting to each other the wounds and regrets that haunt us. Under that shady tree, I realized that the walls of hatred that once separated us were starting to slowly crumble, leaving room for us to understand each other's pain.
Madam Hera looked at me for a moment, as if she could read my mind. "You still believe, huh… that you're innocent?"
I looked back at him, trying to discern what was hidden behind his question. "Yes, ma'am... I never killed Doni, nor did I have the slightest intention of hurting him. Every day, that belief continues to exist, even when other people doubt it. That's the only thing I hold on to, which has kept me strong all this time."
Madam Hera nodded slowly, her eyes showing deep understanding. "I know, Sarah... It feels really difficult. All this time I have also lived in the shadow of hatred, putting the blame entirely on you. Maybe it was because of the pain of loss, which pushed me to look for someone I could blame. But here... behind it This wall, I've been thinking a lot. Maybe the fault isn't entirely someone else's... maybe it's also my way as a parent..."
I fell silent, feeling the deep bitterness in his voice. Maybe, this was the first time I really heard Madam Hera's inner voice, not the judge who tried me or a mother who lost her son.
"Ma'am, maybe we're both hurt... we're both trapped in feelings of guilt, whether towards ourselves or others," I said, trying to dig into the depths of my own feelings. "Sometimes I feel… if time could be turned back, maybe everything would be different."
Madam Hera smiled a little, a smile that was faint but full of hope. "Sarah, I… I always thought that firmness and discipline were the best for Doni. But maybe I was too strict. Maybe she just needs someone who listens more, someone who is more accepting… not just a mother who always demands her to be perfect."
I nodded, trying to understand his perspective. "I sometimes wonder, Mom… if there was anything I could have done to save him. But in the end, we're only human, right? There's a limit to what we can do."
Silence filled the space between us again, but now it wasn't a tense silence. It actually felt peaceful, as if the burden of years was starting to lift little by little.
Madam Hera looked at me again, this time her eyes were warmer, friendlier. "Sarah, maybe we are here to find something. Not just punishment, but an opportunity to make peace with yourself. I want you to know… I no longer look at you with hatred."
I was unable to reply to his words, I could only nod with my eyes starting to heat up. "Thank you, ma'am... for everything. Maybe I will never be able to change everyone's views, but at least... being able to be at peace with myself and with other people here, that's more than enough."
Madam Hera reached out her hand, and I took it, as if feeling the warmth that had been missing from my life for a long time. In the silence of that night, we finally found peace, in the form of mutual acceptance and forgiveness.
In my heart, I promised myself: "Today, make peace, Sarah. Everything will be okay." For the first time, I felt there was hope—even in a place that felt as black as this.
For me, the truth of my innocence remains the only thing I have, the only thing I maintain. Even though according to the law in my country, I am a convict who has been legally and convincingly proven guilty, who must admit his mistake, regret and repent.
It would still be three years before I could apply for clemency again, after the previous pardon was rejected it considered me not accepting the verdict, lacking remorse. The next request for clemency is an opportunity that may be the only way to freedom, perhaps also my last effort before giving up, accepting my way of life to die on this island which I will not regret.
Madam Hera looked at me deeply, and in that gaze I saw the figure of a wounded mother. "Maybe I will never really know what happened between you and Doni," she said. "But... if you are innocent, I hope that one day justice will be on your side."
I nodded, trying to hold back the tears that began to fill my eyes. "Thank you, Ma'am. Even if these words don't change everything, at least… I know you don't completely hate me anymore."
We fell silent again, only the sound of the wind slipping through the bars of the cell could be heard. After a while, Madam Hera said in a very low voice, as if only to herself, "I have learned that sometimes, forgiveness is not about right or wrong, but about peace within yourself. Maybe it's time for me to learn to forgive, not only yourself, but also myself."
Her words rang in my head, and I subconsciously nodded in agreement. Yes, maybe this is what I've needed all along—forgiving myself, forgiving those who accused me, and forgiving the life that led me here.
Madam Hera and I sat in silence, trapped in a silence that this time felt less oppressive. We understand each other, in each other's limits and wounds, even without promises that everything will change. We are just two humans trapped in different prisons—a prison of guilt, a prison of loss, and a physical prison that locks us up.
But that afternoon, we found some peace in a rare conversation, in the intention to understand each other, to forgive ourselves, and to accept that sometimes, life doesn't give us the answers we want, only the opportunity to learn to let go.