Some days come and go without much trace, while others leave footprints on the soul. Yesterday was the kind of day that lingers—one that left my heart full and my mind awake to the quiet, beautiful lessons that life sometimes teaches when we’re simply open to see them.
I had the chance to accompany the students and teachers of MI Tarbiyatul Banat and Banen on their school field trip. At first glance, it was just a typical school outing, but as the day unfolded, it became so much more. It was a journey through nature, joy, culture, and faith. A day painted in colors of excitement, connection, and quiet spirituality.
We began our adventure bright and early. The air was still fresh, buzzing with anticipation. As we loaded onto the buses, the children’s energy was contagious—wide smiles, snacks packed with care, and curious eyes looking out the windows, trying to guess what animals they’d see first.
When we arrived at Surabaya Zoo, the atmosphere shifted into one of awe. The zoo welcomed us with open arms—or perhaps, open cages. The students poured out of the buses like a wave of excitement. There were shouts of “Lihat! Harimau!” and “Burungnya warnanya lucu banget!” as they ran from one enclosure to another.
The lions were majestic, the elephants' gentle giants swaying with ancient rhythm. The orangutans stole the show with their clever antics and expressive faces, making the children giggle uncontrollably. One group stood mesmerized by a peacock that decided to display its full tail—an unexpected, magical moment that turned into dozens of phone pictures and wide eyes.
But beyond the entertainment, there was learning. The teachers, with patience and love, turned every moment into a lesson—about habitats, about kindness to animals, about Allah's vast and beautiful creations. I saw students making notes, asking thoughtful questions, and looking at the world a little differently.
From the calm of the zoo, we dove headfirst into the joy of water. Our next stop was Atlantis Land, and as we arrived, the children could barely contain themselves. The air was warmer now, but the sight of the colorful water slides and sparkling pools was enough to send waves of cheer through the group.
Shoes came off, sunscreen was applied, and before long, the pools echoed with laughter and splashes. Some of the younger kids held hands tightly with their friends as they ventured into the shallow water. The older ones raced down slides, their screams of excitement rising above the noise.
Teachers watched closely, a mix of protective supervision and shared delight. Some sat on benches, fanning themselves and chatting, while others dipped their feet in the water, sharing a moment of calm with the students. One teacher said to me with a laugh, “Kadang kita juga perlu main seperti anak-anak, ya.” And it was true joy doesn’t belong only to the young.
We shared snacks and stories as towels dried wet hair and faces glowed with sun and satisfaction. It was a reminder that learning isn’t always found in books—sometimes, it’s in the freedom of play, in the trust built with friends, and in the memories made under the sun.
As the sun began to lower, casting golden shadows over the road, we crossed over to Madura Island. The mood on the bus quieted; the children were tired but content, gazing out the windows as we passed small villages, rice fields, and local stalls selling traditional Madurese snacks.
Our final stop was unplanned but deeply moving. We visited a local mosque, simple in structure but rich in spirit. We were welcomed warmly by the local community, and what I witnessed there was something I won’t soon forget.
Inside the mosque, Muslims from different backgrounds gathered. Some spoke in Madurese, others in Javanese, and a few in Arabic. But when the adhan echoed through the air, those differences faded completely. People stood side by side, feet aligned, hands folded over hearts, voices rising in perfect harmony as they recited the same prayers.
It was a breathtaking reminder of Islam’s universal message. That no matter the language we speak, the clothing we wear, or the place we call home—Allahu Akbar means the same in every tongue. I watched as our students sat quietly, observing with a respectful curiosity. Some whispered questions to their teachers, others simply watched, their eyes wide, soaking it all in.
One of the older students turned to me and said, “Kok rasanya damai banget ya di sini?” I nodded, because I felt it too. There, in that quiet mosque on Madura Island, I felt the kind of peace that only comes from being connected—to others, to something greater, to faith itself.
As we made our way home, the bus was filled with a different kind of energy. Softer, more reflective. Some children leaned on each other, drifting off to sleep, their faces still flushed from the day’s excitement. Teachers exchanged stories and laughter, recounting their favorite moments.
I sat by the window, watching the darkening sky, feeling grateful. Yesterday wasn’t just about animals, water parks, or even the mosque—it was about connection. Connection to nature, to joy, to each other, and to the deep, unshakable roots of faith that unite us even in our differences.
This field trip with MI Tarbiyatul Banat and Banen was more than a day out—it was a window into the world, and into the hearts of the people who walk it. It reminded me of the value of experience, of shared laughter, and of those rare, quiet moments that remind us of who we are and what we believe.
As I close this reflection, I carry with me the sound of children’s laughter, the peaceful rhythm of prayer, and the echo of that question— “Kok rasanya damai banget ya di sini?”
Yes. It really was.
