I am Silmi, a mother to a nearly four-year-old boy. Since 2011, attending Tabligh Akbar atau Taklim Pusat has been a part of my yearly routine. From being single to now being a mother, every gathering has left an impact on me—but none as deeply as Tabligh Akbar 2024.
This was my second time embarking on this journey from Central Java. But unlike before, I would be traveling without my husband, bringing only my young son along. For someone who rarely travels alone, let alone with a toddler on a journey spanning hundreds of kilometers, this was daunting.
Yet, with my husband’s blessing, I decided to go.
March 1st, 2024. The bus was scheduled to leave at dawn—5:00 AM sharp, no later than 5:30. My mother and three younger siblings opted to stay overnight near the departure point, ensuring they wouldn’t miss it. However, my aunt and I had no such luxury.
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At 4:00 AM, just after Subuh, I bundled up my son and set off. The cold morning air bit at our faces as my husband drove us through the misty hills of Baturaden on his motorcycle. The road stretched dark and quiet, save for the distant hum of insects and the occasional rustling of trees. After a 10-kilometer ride, we arrived at my aunt’s house, where her husband then drove us another 28 kilometers to the meeting point.
By the time we arrived, the bus was nowhere in sight. The minutes stretched into hours, the early morning sky slowly lightening as we stood by the roadside, waiting.
After two and a half hours, the bus finally pulled up. Relief washed over me—until the organizer informed us that the bus was completely full. Two people would have to sit in the aisle on plastic stools.
My heart sank. After all the effort, would I really have to endure a 375-kilometer journey on a flimsy seat, cradling my child the entire way? For a fleeting moment, I considered turning back. But then, a thought pushed through my doubt:
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“Isn’t every act of worship a test of perseverance? Why should this be any different?”
With that, I inhaled deeply, steadied my resolve, and climbed aboard.
As expected, the journey was anything but easy. My son, used to the comforting presence of his father, clung to me anxiously. Hours passed in a blur of shifting positions, aching muscles, and whispered prayers.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, we arrived in Cileungsi. But our trials were far from over.
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The sky, once clear, had turned an ominous shade of gray. Within moments, rain began to fall, drenching the streets and sending travelers scrambling for shelter. As we waited for the pickup to take us to the venue, I stood on the roadside, my son in my arms, my bags weighing heavily on my shoulders.
Then, out of nowhere, a woman on a motorcycle pulled up beside me.
“Come with me, Sister. I’ll take you there,” she offered, her voice warm and reassuring.
For a split second, I hesitated. Who was she? Could I trust her? But something in her eyes—kindness, sincerity—put me at ease.
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I nodded. Bismillah.
As she weaved through the rain-soaked streets, I clung to my son, feeling a surge of gratitude. Here was a stranger, offering help with no expectation of anything in return. And in that moment, I realized—when you walk toward Allah, He always sends help your way.
That evening, after reuniting with my family, I looked forward to meeting an old friend, Susi. We had agreed to meet near the mosque courtyard.
I noticed a niqab-wearing woman approach my sister and strike up a conversation. They seemed engaged, speaking as if they were long-lost acquaintances. I watched, amused, assuming they must have known each other.
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Then, when I finally greeted her, her eyes widened in shock.
“Silmi?! Astaghfirullah, it’s you?”
I frowned. “Uh… yes? Why?”
She turned to my sister in horror.
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“I thought she was you! I’ve been talking to her this whole time, pretending I remembered everything she was saying!”
My sister, who had been nodding along politely, finally spoke, exasperated.
“I was so confused! I kept thinking, ‘Who is this person? Why does she assume I know her?’ But I was too embarrassed to ask!”
For a second, we stared at one another. Then, all at once, laughter exploded between us.
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It was the kind of laughter that left you breathless, that erased exhaustion and filled the night air with warmth.
The next morning, the grand session began. Despite arriving early, the mosque was already packed beyond capacity. We had no choice but to sit on the pavement, using only a thin tarp as a mat.
The rain returned mid-session, soaking our clothes as we huddled under whatever cover we could find. But when the storm passed and the sun shone once more, I couldn’t help but smile.
Every hardship, every discomfort—it was all part of the experience.
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The journey home, however, brought one final test.
As we prepared to leave, I learned that my mother would be taking a different route. That meant I was now responsible for my three younger siblings and my aunt—all first-time attendees. Anxiety crept in. The bus wasn’t scheduled to stop in our hometown, meaning we’d be dropped 28 kilometers away, in the middle of the night.
I steeled myself for yet another challenge.
But then—just as before—Allah had already written a way out.
Moments before departure, the bus organizers announced a change of plans. The bus would go all the way to Purwokerto, dropping us off just minutes from home.
I exhaled, the tension in my shoulders easing.
Truly, Allah is the best of planners.
As I stepped into my home, exhausted but deeply fulfilled, I reflected on everything that had transpired.
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The struggles, the laughter, the unexpected kindness from strangers—it all wove together into something beautiful.
And this year, inshaAllah, I will return again. This time, with my husband and son by my side.
May Allah bless all those who work tirelessly to make the event possible. May He strengthen our bonds of ukhuwah Islamiyah and make every step we take toward Him a source of reward.
Because no matter how far the distance or how great the struggle—this journey is always worth it.
Salam Ukhuwah. []
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