Home of Tuanku Imam Bonjol -2008
Return to Bonjol: A Sumatra Pilgrimage
In 2008, during a loosely planned journey across the spine of Sumatra, I found myself standing in the birthplace of a mystic-warrior whose very name had always struck a mysterious chord in my soul: Imam Bonjol.
I had no itinerary—only two Indonesian guides named Ribut (Storm) and Selamat (Tranquility). I often wonder if life sends us messengers hidden behind names. Together, they ushered me across Northern Sumatra in a rented station wagon. I had surrendered all my cash to them, not out of recklessness but trust. And they shared sights and experiences with me that no travel agency could arrange.
We started in Medan, where my late friend Sham had introduced us. Sham has since returned to the Creator, but his memory rode with me through the villages, forests, and mountain roads. We stayed one night at Ribut’s family home, tucked within a narrow alley where brightly painted houses stared at each other across a gap barely two yards wide. The kind of alley where lives are lived fully, neighbors breathe the same stories, and the call to prayer echoes like a lullaby of the people.
And then we reached Bonjol.
The town where Tuanku Imam Bonjol was born. The earth itself seemed quieter here. The Museum Imam Bonjol, though modest, felt sacred. In its quiet chambers, I saw items linked to his life—robes, weapons, his handwritten notes—and the stories of the Padri War, where he led a resistance against Dutch colonial forces with both spiritual clarity and military resolve.
Imam Bonjol wasn’t just a fighter. He was a Sufi, a mystic, a man of depth who saw no division between faith and action. Among the revered Walis of the archipelago, it was his story that stirred my blood. As if the very struggle he undertook echoed within my own forgotten cells.
I felt a deep resonance—ancestral, spiritual, inexplicable.
Something ancient in me recognized this land. The air. The echo of history.
My Sumatran lineage, often a forgotten whisper, became a thunder of remembrance.
It wasn’t just a museum. It was a mirror.
Imam Bonjol’s defiance against colonialism, his pursuit of spiritual discipline, and his eventual exile speak of a man whose life was a dharma in motion.
And in that quiet hall, I too felt called to motion—not toward battle, but toward remembrance.
Toward stillness.
Toward a deeper understanding of what it means to stand for something without hatred.
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