Have you ever wondered what true love really looks like? It is not found in big promises or beautiful words. True love is tested in the hardest moments — when everything else has been stripped away.
My name is Raha. I am an asylum seeker in Indonesia who sought safety from my homeland.
While awaiting resettlement to a third country, a move I hoped would bring new hope, I married a man who instead brought only pain.
After surviving one abusive marriage in my homeland, I soon became trapped in an even harsher one in a country where I had hoped to find safety for myself and my sons.
I married someone who is more controlling, more violent, and crueller.
A month ago, I escaped from my abusive husband. My body was still marked by bruises, and my heart carried wounds no one could see. But on September 4, 2025, under the burning Indonesian sun, I held my eldest son’s hand as we walked to pick up his younger brother from school.
On that day, as my eldest waited for his younger brother, who was still in class, I brought him along to help me relocate to a safer place for us.
A safer place that I finally found after searching almost every day, spending nearly the entire day outdoors during the peak of summer, when the sun felt three times hotter than usual.
A safer place, in contrast to our former home, I chose to live in a densely populated area.
A place I’m certain my husband never expected me to settle.
I carried a bag of clothes on my back, a water container in one hand, and a mop in the other.
I asked my son to help me carry his school bag, the one he still hopes to use someday. Since our last relocation, we’ve been searching for a school for him, but as refugees, our opportunities to enrol in an educational facility remain limited.
The day before, I had already moved a stove, a carpet, and two more bags — all by myself, using buses and walking long distances. Each trip was heavy, but it was the only way to protect my children.
I was exhausted. But giving up was never an option. Because my children’s safety must come first. Their education, second.
Even knowing my abuser was still searching for me, I chose to keep moving forward.
That afternoon, as we walked together, my seven-year-old son asked me for a kite. I had no money — not even for food. I smiled and told him, “We will wait a little.” To him, it was just patience. To me, it was protecting him from fear and hunger.
I almost broke then. Tears filled my eyes. But I told myself, “It’s just dust.” And I wiped them away.
Those tears carried questions: Will I survive this? Is this more than I can bear? How long can I keep going? But I also whispered Alhamdulillah. Because I still had my sons. Because I still had hope.
My name, Raha, means peace of mind. Even in hardship, I hold on to that peace. I am a mother whose love is my strength. A woman who rises again and again — not because life is kind, but because my love is fierce.
This is what true love looks like. It is not easy. It is not comfortable. But it is powerful enough to keep us alive.
*Note: The name used in the story is not the original but was carefully chosen to have the same meaning in Arabic. This maintains the authenticity of the narrative while preserving the individual’s confidentiality.
