As I walked home from the petition outpost, the chirping of crickets echoed among the bamboo branches, accompanied by the gentle whisper of the night breeze. Slung over my shoulder was a bag filled with stacks of petition forms, unique-code sheets, and writing supplies. My body was tired, but my mind felt ablaze with thoughts.
I had assumed I would end this night with a sound sleep. Yet something tugged at me: a mysterious document I had found at the Village Hall canteen earlier this afternoon—a sleek photocopy without letterhead, neatly folded, and hidden beneath a pile of palm oil festival brochures. In an instant, my skin prickled with alarm.
I pulled over my scooter, switched on the headlight, and looked to my right, half-expecting to see a shadow lurking nearby. The surrounding air fell silent. I reached into my jacket pocket and retrieved the document. Under the streetlamp's glow, I unfolded it slowly. Across the page was a list of farmers' names, numbers indicating allocations of village funds, and notes about land clearance approvals. The headings were terse: "Phase I: 5 ha—Rp 150,000,000," and next to it, a "Approved" checkbox was faintly ticked.
Red pen marks emphasized a few lines: "Pak Suyono," "PT Makmur Lestari," "Village Commission." Although some details were smudged, it was obvious this wasn't a grassroots palm oil proposal. It was a record of the local authorities' expenditures—black on white. There was a note about a "bonus" for the "Head of Finance" amounting to 10% of the total. My heart pounded.
"What is this…?" I whispered, holding my breath.
My voice felt hoarse, stifled by the pounding of my heartbeat. There it was—an excerpt of corruption scrawled across that worn sheet of paper, a dark trace that could shatter the solidarity of the Durian Guardians if it leaked. Or it might become the ultimate weapon to halt the palm oil takeover. Yet the risk of exposing this secret was enormous: it might be libel if false, or a boomerang if mishandled.
I groaned softly, then reached into my pants pocket for a small flashlight. I beamed its narrow beam across the paper. In the "Headman's Signature" column was a wet ink imprint, and a half-stick village stamp clung faintly. If it was genuine, I was holding major evidence. If it was forged, I could be charged with defamation.
My feet froze. What should I do now? I thought of Chandra, my friend and Vice-Chair of the Durian Guardians—he would want to investigate this further. But before trusting it, I needed to verify the printed stamp and signature with official records, check the date of creation, and find the original source at the village office.
I revved my scooter again and sped toward home. The night wind whipped against my face, keeping me alert. My mind raced: in the five months since I'd returned, I had poured all my energy into defending the durian orchards. Yet tonight, the specter of corruption, once only a hypothetical discussion in our meetings, suddenly materialized in black ink before me.
When I arrived home, I placed the flashlight and the document on my rickety wooden table. I had already replaced the old oil lamp with a small LED bulb to read documents clearly. I opened my laptop, loaded the photo of the village stamp I had taken last week at a meeting, and compared it to the stamp on this document. The wave pattern matched, but the ink appeared faded—more gray than the deep blue I usually captured. Whether calamity or opportunity, it was enough of a clue.
My computer whirred softly as I zoomed in on the scanned image of the stamp. Tiny flecks of ink matched, although there were smudges as if the stamp had been applied hastily, and a blot that looked like a coffee spill. All of this suggested the document was authentic and produced in a rush.
Moments passed. I closed my eyes, then typed a short message:
[Agung ➜ Chandra]: "Chan, I found something tonight. A document about palm oil land allocations, bearing the village stamp and Pak Suyono's signature. Can we verify it together tomorrow? It's crucial. Please don't share this yet."
I held my breath, waiting for a reply. All I heard was my phone ringing and the laptop's hard drive whirring.
The next morning, the sun greeted me warmly. The morning breeze roused me when my phone alarm rang. I splashed water on my face, brewed a strong black coffee, and stared at the rolled-up document secured by a rubber band. It felt like a ticking time bomb—anyone who knew had to be cautious.
I walked to the school where Chandra taught Informatics. That morning he was guiding his students through a simple programming exercise. When recess bell rang, I summoned him to a corner of the hallway, beneath a large window that cast soft daylight across the floor.
"Chan," I said quietly, placing the document in his right hand. "Here… I need you to analyze this."
His eyes widened, and he bit his lip in concentration. "Where did you get this?" he asked carefully.
"Last night, I stumbled across it in the Village Hall canteen. Either it was left deliberately or I was just lucky to find it," I replied, looking him straight in the eyes. "I need to know if it's real. If it is, we have evidence of corruption. If we expose it, the palm oil plan could collapse. But if it's fake, we risk being accused of slander."
Chandra closed his eyes briefly and exhaled. "Okay. We start by verifying the stamp. I got contact information for a forensic ink lab at the university. I can send a small sample there to test which era the ink belongs to—whether it's old, wiping the edges, or freshly printed. Then we compare the signature with the digital archive at the village office."
I nodded. "Good. But I'm worried it could leak. We must secure this document. Can we store it in an encrypted drive?"
Chandra patted my shoulder. "I'll arrange it. When you get home, I'll send you instructions."
For a moment, we stood in silence, feeling the weight of responsibility. Then the bell for class resounded. Chandra returned to his classroom, yet our minds remained fixed on the rows of numbers and names on that paper.
At noon, I found a moment to slip into the village office, pretending to deliver the Phase I petition reports. When the Village Head, Pak Suyono, stepped out of his office, I greeted him warmly.
"Pak Kades, here is the Phase I petition report," I said, handing him a small plastic folder filled with forms.
He accepted it with a friendly smile, then glanced at me as if to ask, "Is everything all right?" His lips remained sealed. I replied, "I hope this report helps you assess villagers' response."
As he returned inside, I lingered on the village porch and approached the records clerk, a woman named Bu Murni, who was copying KTP data. I lifted my cup of hot tea. "Bu Murni, did you see any unusual stack of photocopied documents yesterday afternoon?"
She turned her swivel chair and looked at me. "Photocopies? You mean the land allocation papers? That's the deputy head's business, not mine. He dashed out yesterday because of an urgent summons to the subdistrict office."
The deputy head's name was Pak Darto. This was a lead. I thanked her, then hurried home. My thoughts raced: tomorrow I needed to meet with Pak Darto, because he might hold the fuller scoop.
Later that afternoon, I went to Pak Darto's office, which was tightly shut. His home sat at the edge of the village. He was out on the porch sunning a stack of file folders while talking on his cellphone. When I waved, he signaled me forward with a finger.
"Mas Agung," he greeted as I arrived, ending his call. "What can I do for you?"
"I… need clarification about the land allocation document. Is it true that Pak Kades signed it?" I asked directly.
His face shifted, and his eyes flickered rapidly. "That document… it's only an internal memo. It's not official. It was just a draft, not final. I have no idea how it leaked."
I suppressed my anger. "Even a draft should be stored carefully. Here it shows numbers that could implicate the village if circulated. The signature and stamp are both attached… It looks like someone was in a hurry."
Pak Darto rubbed his forehead. "Perhaps my staff forgot to file it away. But rest assured, it's not final. I suggest you return it to the office; I'll handle it personally."
I stared at him intently. There was both panic and fear in his eyes, as though he feared even more if this document were reversed. "All right, Pak. But I need your guarantee that no funds will be allocated without villagers' deliberation. Everything has to be transparent."
He bowed his head and fell silent for a moment. "Agreed. I'll arrange an official meeting next week with the subdistrict head. Everything will be discussed at the Village Hall."
I nodded. "Fine. I'll await the invitation."
Without further ado, I bid him farewell. The sky grew dim as streetlamps flickered on. My heart felt torn between relief—because I had at least secured the Deputy Head's acknowledgment—and anxiety at what new schemes might surface at the subdistrict meeting.
As dusk approached, I returned to the group's outpost. Chandra had already posted a message in our chat:
[Chandra]: "Document verification is underway. Ink samples have been sent to the lab. The digital archive of the village stamp is zipped and encrypted. Await results."
A notification from Lia flickered on the screen: "Mockup infographic 'Traces of Corruption' is ready. We can use it for legal advocacy."
I stared at the screen, then typed my reply:
[Agung]: "Great! Prepare the draft presentation showing the document data, timeline of creation, and plans for next week's Village Hall meeting. We need to invite our traditional leaders, NGOs, and subdistrict officials."
Seconds ticked by, and I inhaled deeply. This document had opened a doorway to a new chapter—an advocacy no longer just about defending the orchards, but about upholding justice and the village's sovereignty. It was the greatest moral test since my return.
As I glanced at the piled-up physical petitions in the corner, I whispered,
"If corruption has taken root, it must be uprooted to its core. For Durian Village, for our parents' legacy, for the future."