This was the rotten core of abg life. You were expected to be modern—post photos in hijab trends, reply to DMs, know the TikTok choreography—but the system was ancient. The school hierarchy was brutal. The threat of bullying (perundungan) was just a prelude to the adult world of KKN (Korupsi, Kolusi, Nepotisme), where the strong crushed the weak and identity determined your worth.
This was the test. Tari looked at Ridho’s shiny motor. Then at Cinta, who was wiping a tear with the back of her hand. Then at Dewi, who gave a tiny shake of her head.
Dewi finally pushed her cold nasi goreng aside.
“You okay, Cu ?” Dewi asked.
Their third friend, Cinta, arrived, sliding onto the plastic stool with a heavy sigh. Her face was pale under the streetlight. She didn’t order food.
“Does it matter?” Cinta whispered. “The guru BK (guidance counselor) will just say it’s a ‘misunderstanding’ and make us do meditasi (mediation) together.”
“It’s Ridho,” Tari hissed. He was a senior from the SMK across the bridge, the one with the beat-up motor and the very fast tongue. “He wants to ‘jalan-jalan’ to the pantai tonight. Just the two of us.” video abg mesum
The three girls sat in the silence for a long moment. The abg world was a balancing act: between the pressures of modernity and the shackles of tradition, between the desire to be seen and the fear of being targeted, between the fantasy of social media and the brutality of the street.
The air in front of the nasi goreng stall was thick with the smell of kecap manis and burning charcoal. Dewi, 17, scrolled through her Instagram feed, watching a influencer in Bali show off a new juice cleanse. Her stomach grumbled. Beside her, Tari, a year younger, was hunched over her phone, aggressively typing.
“Tari, ayolah ,” he called, ignoring Dewi and Cinta entirely. “Just fifteen minutes to the pantai . My treat.” This was the rotten core of abg life
Cinta wasn't a pendatang . Her family had lived in Java for three generations. But her dark skin and curly hair made her a target of the silent, systemic racism that ran through the country like a toxic river. It wasn't the loud violence of the news. It was the quiet exclusion: being the last one picked for group projects, the “jokes” about sarung and papeda , the teachers who looked away.
Dewi put her spoon down. The social issue wasn't Ridho—it was the expectation. In their kampung (urban village) in Bandung, pacaran (dating) was a minefield. Go out alone? You were anak nakal (naughty kid). Go with a chaperone? You were kuno (ancient). The bigger threat was the creeping ghost of pergaulan bebas —free association—that every arisan (neighborhood gathering) mother warned about.
Tari sighed. “He’ll call me sok suci (holier-than-thou).” The threat of bullying (perundungan) was just a
“Who said it?” Dewi’s voice was cold.