THE MASK WE WEAR

 

A woman with a pasmina hijab turned out to have entered her last year at university. He lives in a small rented room in Surabaya, not far from campus. His days are filled with lectures, group work, student meetings, and sometimes, speaking at student events. People around her saw her wearing a neat hijab, speaking politely, and always showing up prepared. Her peers used to call Siska.

Her mother had been sick for months. Their family didn't have much savings, and his father had died a few years earlier. His part-time job at a bookstore pays very little, and the bill keeps growing. However, he kept his image clean. "We have to live by our values," he said at a student discussion on honesty.

What no one knows is that Siska secretly writes essays for other students for money.

It began during the second semester of his third year. A friend panicked before the deadline and asked if he could help. Siska agreed, thinking she would just edit the paper. But then the friend said, "Actually, can you write it for me? I'll pay."

Siska hesitated. But then he thought of his mother's medicine. "Okay. Only this once," he said.

It doesn't stop.

Now, he has five fixed ones. They would send her the topics, and she would write an essay, pretending to be them. He was careful and tried not to plagiarize, matched their writing styles, and never reused the same paper twice.

Some nights, he would stay up until two in the morning, complete his own errands and then work on them.

"It's not like I'm hurting anybody," he said to himself. "They are the ones who cheat. I'm just helping."

But sometimes, the words he says in public feel heavy. Like when he stood in front of first-year students and talked about academic integrity. "Doing the right thing when no one is watching," he said. "That's a real character."

Afterwards, people applauded. The lecturer smiled and nodded. But when he got home, he couldn't sleep.

His phone was buzzing, another request could be seen behind the scenes. He sighed, turned on his laptop, and got to work.

One night, her friend Rani came to study.

Rani saw a stack of printed essays on Siska's desk. "Is all this yours?"

"Some for others," Siska admitted. "They paid me."

Rani frowned. "You write papers for people? Isn't that ... dishonest?"

Siska shrugged. "I need the money."

"But you always talk about honesty and values."

"I know," Siska said quietly. "But it's not that simple."

Rani did not deny. He just looked away.

They studied in silence for the rest of the night.

The part-time semester is approaching. The campus library became crowded with students. Siska also spent more time there. Not only for his own study, but also to meet people who need his "help".

He always made sure to keep everything quiet. When he hands in the papers, he'll say, "Here's the draft," or "Just check if it fits your style." He never said, "I'm writing this for you." But they both knew.

One afternoon, a student from the economics department met him at the back desk. "Thank you again, Sis. I don't know what I'd do without you," she whispered, slipping the envelope on the table.

Siska put it in her notebook.

Returning to his room that night, he found himself staring at his shadow in the mirror. His face looked tired, older than his age. His eyes, which had once been clear and full of hope, now looked dull.

He opened his notebook. Inside the envelope was Rp 200,000.

He thought about how many times he repeated this same process. He has written papers on marketing, political theory, even one on ethical leadership. The latter made him laugh out loud.

Ethics, huh?

He remembered what his lecturer had said last week. "Some people say the greatest danger to integrity is not failure—it's pretending to be good while doing the opposite."

That sentence stayed with him.

On campus, things continue as usual. Siska gave another short lecture in the student discussion group, this time about "building trust in the academic environment." He spoke calmly and clearly. His voice did not tremble.

But when he finished and walked out of the room, he saw someone watching him. Rani.

Rani hasn't said much since that night in Siska's room. Now, he was slowly approaching.

"You know," Rani said, "people trust you. They admire you."

Siska did not answer.

Rani stopped. "You're not a bad person, Siska. But you become someone you're not."

Then he left.

Later that week, one of the students she wrote to called Siska in a panic.

"They are reviewing my paper," he said. "The lecturer thought I didn't write it."

Siska froze. "Did you change anything before sending?"

"No! Just like you gave it to me."

Siska's chest tightened. "What did they say?"

"They want me to come for interrogation. If they prove that I cheat, I may fail the course. Or worse."

That night, Siska couldn't sleep. He kept thinking about the student, about the trust he had placed in him—even if it was for the wrong reasons. He also thinks about the lecturers, classmates, lectures he gives.

And he thought of his mother, sleeping in the next room, unaware of the things Siska was doing.

The next morning, he tried to act normally. He goes to class, takes notes, answers questions about character development in The Great Gatsby. Ironically, he talks about the theme of illusion—people pretending to be something they're not.

His voice wasn't cracked, but inside, he felt like he was in a mess.

That afternoon, he received another message. This time, it was from a new student. "I heard you were the one who helped with the essay. Can you do mine too? I'll pay upfront."

Siska stared at the message for a long time.

He did not answer.

Siska skipped class the next day.

He told his friends that he had a headache, but in fact, he just had to think. He sat in a small stall near his boarding house, drinking cold tea. His phone was buzzing, but he didn't see it.

He kept replaying everything in his head. The speech he gave. The papers he wrote. Rani said. A boy who might get caught. His mother asked, "Are you okay, Son?" the night before.

Siska knew she had reached a line. If he passed through it again, there might be no way back.

He thought about the girl who had entered the university with a dream. Someone who believes that if you work hard and stay honest, everything will work out. Somewhere along the way, the girl has learned that survival sometimes means compromise. But now, he wasn't sure who he had become.

That night, he opened his laptop. Not to write a paper, but to write a message. His hands trembled slightly.

To: Mr. Hendro

Subject: Confession

Dear Sir, I am writing this not as a student seeking mercy, but as someone who has made a mistake.

Over the past few months, I have been writing academic papers on behalf of other students for payment. I'm not plagiarizing, but I understand that doesn't make it right.

I know that my actions are contrary to everything I have spoken about in public and everything I claim to believe.

I am ready to take responsibility. I will accept any consequences you think are fair.

Sincerely, Siska

He hover over the "send" button for an entire minute.

Then he clicked.

The next few days felt like walking through a fog. She still goes to class, but she remains alone. He avoided eye contact with the students he had helped. He did not respond to their messages. He didn't answer anyone, really. even Rani.

Then, on Friday, he was summoned to the faculty office.

He expected a scream. He expects a judgment. But the lecturer who met him only looked tired.

"We've been suspecting something like this for a while," he said. "But we don't think it's you."

Siska did not speak.

"You're not the first. But you are the first to come forward. Why now?"

She looked at him, her voice soft. "Because I can't stand being who I am."

The university did not expel him. He was placed on an academic probationary period, and he had to complete several ethics modules. He also had to return the money he earned—the little that remained.

But in many ways, the real punishment is personal.

People know it. Whispers followed him down the hallway. Some of the students who admired him before looked away now. Someone even said, loudly enough for him to hear, "He talks about values but sells tasks behind the scenes. Normal."

Rani is one of the few who remains.

"You're doing the right thing," Rani said as they sat together on a bench one afternoon. "Even if it comes too late."

"I feel like I've lost everything," Siska replied.

"Maybe. Or maybe you end up building something real."

It is not easy. Trust, once broken, does not return quickly.

But Siska started again.

He stopped giving speeches. She spends more time helping her mother cook, doing honest work, studying properly. He even volunteered to mentor a first-year student—not as a moral example, but as someone who had made real mistakes and learned from them.

One day, she meets a boy whose letter has been questioned. She nodded to him in silence. He nodded back.

There is no hard feeling. Just be silent. Maybe understand.

A few weeks before her, Siska gave one last short lecture. not at a big event, only in class, during student discussions.

Someone asked him, "How do we stay good in an unjust world?"

He looked at them. Then he said, calmly:

"Maybe we don't. Not always. But we can stop pretending. That's the beginning."

There was no applause.

But there were some quiet nods.

And for the first time in a long time, that was enough.