By Fendy S. Tulodo
A kebaya-clad woman posted a blurry photo of a coconut tree on Kabar Jember 24 Jam, claiming the leaves had started forming Arabic script. By lunchtime, the post had over 3,000 comments, someone said the image cured their husband’s cough, and a local printer began selling it on mousepads.
Ratna watched the reactions flood in from her cracked Samsung screen. She had meant to delete the post. Instead, she scrolled. She was sitting on the kitchen floor, back against the gas tank, lukewarm kopi susu (coffee with milk) beside her, watching her daughter, Ayu, spread crackers on a tray. Everything smelled like oil and the half-open door let in a dusty, late-morning heat. The post was absurd, sure, but it wasn’t hurting anyone. Not yet.
Ratna clicked “Approve.”
The Facebook group wasn’t hers, not originally. But after the original admin moved to Surabaya and ghosted everyone, Ratna took over. For two years, Kabar Jember 24 Jam had been a harmless whirlwind of traffic alerts, stolen phones, random local gossip, and people selling wardrobes they didn’t need. Ratna liked the rhythm of moderation. Approve. Reject. Delete spam. Welcome new members. Remove offensive comments. Rinse, repeat.
But over the past month, the content changed.
It began with “dream interpretations.” Harmless at first. Someone dreamed of a rooster giving them money. Then someone else dreamed of entering a mosque barefoot. One post claimed dreaming of a black umbrella meant an inheritance was coming. The comment section loved it. People tagged their friends, shared stories of their own.
A week later, someone posted a screenshot of a WhatsApp forward claiming that Jember was one of seven “spiritually chosen cities.” No one questioned it.
Ratna noticed that posts with vague spiritual claims consistently got the most reactions. And her group metrics looked amazing. She felt proud. Then nervous.
Then something shifted again.
A man named Bayu posted, “I felt warmth in my chest when reading yesterday’s post. That’s not coincidence. That’s connection.”
The top reply: “The Group chooses who to reveal the Truth to.”
Ratna stared at it for several minutes before deleting it. But the next day, it came back again, posted by someone else. Then another. Then another. The language changed slowly. Words like “truth,” “calling,” and “receiver” started popping up. No one said “God.” No one said “religion.” But people started acting as if the group was something sacred.
And somehow, it kept growing.
By the second week, Ratna’s face had become the group’s profile picture. She hadn’t uploaded it. Someone else did.
“Admin Ratna is the Gatekeeper,” one post said. “She curates the stream.”
She removed the post. Then someone made a meme out of her. A photo of her frowning in a warung (food stall), with Comic Sans text: “This is the face of someone who SEES.”
A friend texted her:
“Ratt, ini kamu? Why are you viral?”
(“Ratt, is this you? Why are you going viral?”)
She replied with a laughing emoji. The humor never came.
Later, under the dim bathroom light, she stared at her own reflection—really stared—for the first time in weeks. Same thin face, same tired eyes. Nothing prophetic. Just a tired snack seller with a teenage daughter and a Facebook addiction. She turned off her phone, tried to sleep, and dreamt of being stuck in a crowd where everyone looked like her.
Things got worse on a Thursday.
A user named “Seno Akhir” posted a long status titled, “Guidelines of Harmony.” It was a numbered list, seemingly nonsensical:
- Wear blue on Mondays
- Do not eat jackfruit in the morning
- Greet three people before 10 a.m.
- Delete photos of the ocean
- Stand still for two minutes every sunset
It got 6,700 likes and over a thousand shares. People in the comments started calling it “The Code.”
Ratna tried to remove it. Facebook gave her an error.
She messaged one of the moderators:
“Can you try removing that Seno post?”
“Which one?”
“The Code.”
“No post by that name exists now.”
But it did. It was still there. Pinned.
That week, Ayu came home from school and said, “Ma, Bu Ika made us stand still during sunset. She said it was from the group. My friends said you approved it.”
Ratna froze. “I didn’t.”
“But they said you’re the Admin. They trust you.”
That night, she made her account private. Then she deleted all her profile photos. But it didn’t stop.
Memes using her name multiplied.
“Ratna’s Hour.”
“Ratna Approves.”
“Wait for Ratna.”
They began tagging her even on unrelated posts, like road updates or satay reviews. Her face had become a symbol. A logo for something she didn’t understand.
People no longer commented with “Aamiin” or “Thank you.” They said:
“Ratna bless.”
“As curated by Ratna.”
“Seen and shared, as per the Gatekeeper.”
She hadn’t posted anything in two weeks.
In early July, the district office called her in. A woman in an orange blouse asked her to sit in a beige room with no fan. She said, “This group you’re running is interfering with operations.”
“Interfering?” Ratna asked.
“People are not going to scheduled community events anymore. They’re saying they’re waiting for signs. Some markets are half empty because people now believe jackfruit invites misfortune. Where did this come from?”
“I didn’t write any of it,” Ratna said.
“But you let it stay.”
Ratna went home and stared at her wall. Ayu was doing homework beside her. A fan spun slowly. From the kitchen came the sound of frying oil and a neighbor’s karaoke machine blasting an old Dangdut song.
She opened Facebook and looked at the post about a man who claimed his debt was forgiven after sharing a post with five friends. There were over 4,000 comments.
The top comment read:
“Ratna’s will is subtle, but it flows.”
That night, she tried to delete the group.
Facebook didn’t allow it.
A notification popped up:
“This group is now classified as a Community Knowledge Source. It cannot be deleted.”
The next morning, twenty clone groups appeared, all using her photo. Kabar Rasa Jember. Ratna’s Eye. Jember Connect 24.
She joined one of the clones. A live video was streaming. Three people were gathered in front of a faded banner that read, “Guidance Through Network.” One of them was wearing a scarf with Ratna’s face printed on it. Another said:
“She no longer posts because the truth has been fully revealed. Her silence is permission.”
Her fingers froze. Ayu walked into the room, holding her phone. “Ma, my teacher said our class must join the 6 p.m. Live tonight. It’s a gratitude circle.”
Ratna looked up. “No. You don’t have to do that.”
“They’ll say we’re… not aligned.”
Ratna didn’t reply.
She stood up. Left the room. Took the broom. Swept the porch slowly. She didn’t speak to anyone that night. Didn’t cook. Didn’t check her phone.
At midnight, she opened Facebook and made a final post:
“This group was never supposed to be more than updates and offers. Any truth you see in it is your own. Let it go.”
The post was up for less than an hour. It was deleted by someone else.
The next morning, Ayu smiled for the first time in days. “Ma, I made a new group. Just us. Two members only. No rules.”
Ratna blinked. “What for?”
“For posting random things,” Ayu said. “You can post your fried banana recipe. I can post about that cat I saw with three ears.”
“We’re not posting about cats,” Ratna said flatly.
Ayu laughed.
Later that day, Ratna opened their new group. No profile picture. No banner. Just a blank feed. She posted a photo she took last week. A street lamp at dusk. No filter. No caption.
No likes.
No shares.
Just the image.
And a silence she could finally own.
THE END
Fendy S. Tulodo is a writer and musician based in Indonesia. He enjoys crafting narratives that blur the line between reality and the surreal, often drawing inspiration from everyday moments and cultural folklore. When he’s not writing, he spends time composing music and experimenting with digital media.
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