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(Story and characters by  JudyJudith as an accompanying piece for a commission done by  Rayka)

Chapter 1: Reflections on a New Home

You've been in Indonesia since 2023, when Trans Indonesia Airlines went on a hiring spree for foreign pilots like you—experienced captains from abroad, lured by attractive salaries and the chance to train local talent. The airline, emerging stronger from the pandemic with restored capacity and a focus on growth, sought seasoned aviators to mentor their cadet pilots and bolster their expanding fleet of Boeing, ATR, and COMAC aircraft. It was supposed to be a temporary gig, a couple of years tops, before heading back to the open plains of the Midwest. But life here has a way of pulling you in deeper, especially now. Back home, things feel more unsettled than ever, with that familiar face back in the White House stirring up old divisions. It's got you thinking: maybe sticking around Indonesia longer isn't such a bad idea. The skies are just as vast, the pay is solid, and the people... well, they're different in the best ways.

Unlike the flat, endless fields of your hometown, Indonesia is a whirlwind of islands, humidity, and chaos that somehow feels alive. Sure, herbivores outnumber carnivores ten to one here, just like in America, but the vibe couldn't be more opposite. There, the speciesism against folks like you—a red fox with sharp instincts and a predator's edge—can hit you head-on: suspicious stares, whispered slurs, police stopping you for driving a nice car, or worse. Here, it's subtler, less upfront. Yeah, it's there, bubbling under the surface in pockets, but most folks treat you with curiosity or even respect. They call you "bule," that term for foreigners—particularly Westerners—that carries a mix of awe and intrigue, and as a fox among all these herbivores, you obviously stand out, but without feeling like or seen as a threat. No one's clutching their bags or crossing the street when they see you; instead, they smile, ask questions, and seem genuinely interested in this American canine who's taken to their skies.

The nation's motto, "Bhinneka Tunggal Ika"—unity in diversity—rings true in many ways, especially in how herbivores and carnivores have learned to collaborate. In rural areas, carnivores like your family back home might have been shunned, but here, they're valued for their roles in agriculture and fishing, contributing to the communal spirit of gotong-royong. Her religion's teachings against speciesism help too, fostering tolerance even if prejudices linger in urban corners. You've seen it firsthand during layovers in smaller islands, where mixed-species teams work side by side without the overt hostility you'd expect back in the States. Tigers and leopards track livestock like chicken as expert guardians, while mongooses and civets protect crops from pests, their agility complementing the strength of herbivores like water buffaloes who plow the fields. Natural disasters—earthquakes, tsunamis, volcanic eruptions—further bind everyone together, with carnivores' acute senses providing early warnings and herbivores leading the reconstruction efforts. It's a symbiosis that's woven into legends, like the Sulawesi tale of a clouded leopard and an anoa teaming up against pirates, teaching lessons of mutual respect that echo through generations.

The longer you stay, the more you uncover layers of this place that America and the West seem to have forgotten—or maybe never fully embraced. There's a quiet strength in the everyday here, rooted in values like gotong-royong, that communal pull where everyone pitches in, not out of obligation but because it's woven into the fabric of survival and joy. Back home, individualism reigns supreme, everyone out for their own slice of the pie, leaving folks isolated in their silos of success or struggle. Here, it's different: neighbors band together for weddings, harvests, or even just to fix a flooded road after a monsoon, and as a carnivore, you've felt that inclusion firsthand, no questions asked about your fangs or fur. It's a norm of mutual aid that's been eroding in the States for decades, replaced by suspicion and self-interest, especially amid the rising tides of division.

Norms around family and respect hit differently too—elders are revered, not sidelined, and conversations flow with a politeness that masks deeper bonds, even among strangers. You've seen it in the way herbivores and carnivores navigate shared spaces: no aggressive posturing, just an unspoken virtue of tolerance, bolstered by the predominant faith's teachings against speciesism, emphasizing equality in ways that feel genuine rather than performative. In America, virtues like empathy and cooperation often get lip service in DEI trainings or political speeches, but they're fractured by the overt prejudices that pit species against each other, turning neighbors into suspects. Here, even in the face of subtle biases or resource strains, there's a resilience born from shared hardships—volcanic eruptions or tsunamis that force everyone to rebuild together, carnivores alerting with their senses, herbivores hauling the weight—fostering a solidarity that's rare back West, where disasters often amplify divisions rather than heal them.

Cultural virtues shine through in the stories and traditions too, legends of interspecies heroes that teach kids about trust and collaboration from the cradle, not competition or conquest. It's imperfect, sure—tensions flare in crowded cities or over scarce jobs, stereotypes linger like shadows—but those flaws feel surmountable, part of a society actively striving for harmony rather than one unraveling at the seams. With every passing day, Indonesia's humid embrace, its chaotic yet cohesive rhythm, feels more like the home you didn't know you were missing, a place where unity isn't just a slogan but a lived reality that mends what the West has let fray.

Berlian has been your anchor from the start, helping you navigate it all even before things turned intimate between you. As a dhole—a rare canine in these parts—she gets it. Finding another canine here felt like a small miracle, a shared understanding in a sea of differences. Born in 1995 in a small village near Cimahi in West Java, Berlian grew up as the only daughter in a family of rice farmers, the middle child among four brothers. Her tomboyish nature shone through early, playing soccer and climbing rooftops to watch planes at the nearby airport, dreaming of a career her parents initially deemed unsuitable for females. Despite financial hardships and the COVID-19 pandemic delaying her training, she excelled in math and science, earning a scholarship to study aeronautics in Bandung and becoming the first in her family to attend university. Her family, the only carnivore household in their village, was well-treated thanks to her father's role supplying rice to herbivores and the religious prohibition on speciesism. Growing up, she bridged gaps at school, where herbivore classmates were initially hesitant but warmed to her through time and mutual respect, her academic excellence proving that species didn't define capability.

She's told you about her own experiences growing up, how anti-carnivore sentiment exists in Indonesia too, how she's felt its sting in subtle ways, like hesitant classmates or job biases in the cities. But she always adds that it's nothing like what you've described from America—less violent, more hidden, and often softened by that communal spirit they call gotong-royong. In urban areas, prejudices can manifest in employment discrimination, with some reluctant to hire carnivores due to ingrained fears, but in her village, cooperation was key to survival. Hearing her stories makes you appreciate her strength even more, that warmth and kindness she brings to everything, from the cockpit to quiet conversations over coffee. She's beautiful, professional to a fault up there in the air, but down here on the ground, she's your secret joy—friends with benefits, sure, but it feels like more with every passing day. Her older brothers Raja and Satria joined her rooftop adventures, crafting paper airplanes, while the younger twins Teguh and Gagah looked up to her. Though raised in a devout, religious home in a traditional wooden house, Berlian grew more secular over time, diverging from her parents' faith while holding onto values of equality.

Joining TIA in January 2023, right as the airline ramped up post-COVID operations, Berlian quickly proved herself as a first officer on the 737-800, ATR 72-600, and COMAC C919, accumulating over 2,000 flight hours. Her ambition burns bright—to captain the Boeing 787 Dreamliner one day—and she's already mentoring cadets, visiting schools to inspire young females, much like how she overcame her own obstacles. At 175 cm tall with a fit 65 kg frame, she maintains her tomboy edge through gym workouts and park runs, while her photography hobby captures aviation-themed shots that have garnered 50,000 Instagram followers. She's fluent in Indonesian, English, Javanese, and Sundanese, loves local dishes like gado-gado and nasi uduk, and binge-watches Netflix in her Kalideres apartment near the airport. Heterosexual and single, she's attracted to male pilots like you but has no desire for children, focusing instead on advancing her career and supporting her parents' retirement. During university, she lived in a cramped boarding house, tutoring English and working at the airport desk, her thesis on fuel efficiency earning faculty praise. At pilot school, one of few females, she inspired classmates despite the pandemic's six-month break, when she returned home to help establish a community garden.

Flying together has deepened your bond. You've shared countless hours in the cockpit, discussing everything from fuel efficiency optimizations—her undergraduate thesis topic—to the subtle discriminations you've both faced as carnivores. In America, it's overt and aggressive; in Indonesia, it's more about quiet biases in hiring or social exclusion, though mitigated by the nation's emphasis on cooperation. Berlian's secular outlook, diverging from her devout, religious upbringing, aligns with your own worldview, making conversations flow effortlessly. She's not just a colleague or lover; she's a partner who understands the predator's edge in a herbivore-dominated world, and her resilience inspires you to consider making Indonesia your permanent home. You've traded stories of your Midwest independence against her village solidarity, her experiences with subtle urban prejudices mirroring but softening your own encounters with outright hostility back home.

Despite your seniority in age and rank as a captain, you often feel like Berlian is the one guiding you through this new world, especially once you step out of the cockpit. She's become your unofficial translator, patiently teaching you bits of Indonesian during layovers—simple phrases like "terima kasih" for thank you or how to navigate the chaotic bargaining at local markets without getting fleeced. She's introduced you to customs that still feel foreign, like the importance of removing your shoes before entering a home or the subtle art of gotong-royong, that communal helping hand that turns strangers into allies during festivals or neighborhood cleanups. More than once, she's "protected" you when things heated up, like that time in a crowded Jakarta street food stall where a group of herbivores shot suspicious glances your way, their whispers laced with that underlying speciesism; Berlian stepped in with her calm, assertive charm, diffusing the tension with a few well-chosen words in Indonesian that left them nodding apologetically and offering extra sambal as a peace gesture. She's done so much more—showing you hidden gems like the serene rice terraces near her village or explaining the nuances of Ramadan fasting, even though she's grown more secular herself—making you feel less like an outsider and more like someone who belongs.

It's in these moments that you realize how different Berlian is from the women you dated back in America. Those relationships often felt superficial, built on shared Midwestern small talk or the thrill of fleeting adventures, but they lacked the depth, the resilience that Berlian brings so naturally. Those women, mostly herbivores with their guarded optimism or fellow carnivores hardened by constant battles against overt prejudice, never quite bridged worlds the way she does—effortlessly blending her tomboyish spirit with a quiet strength that turns challenges into opportunities. There's no pretense with her; she's not chasing status or escaping something, like some back home who saw you as a ticket out of their own frustrations. Instead, Berlian stands on her own, her journey from a modest village home to the skies inspiring you in ways that make those past connections pale, leaving you grateful for this unexpected guide who's rewriting what partnership means to you.

And then there's her English—remarkably fluent, making conversations flow as naturally as if you'd known each other for years in the same hometown. That slight accent lingers, a soft, melodic lilt shaped by her Javanese roots, turning everyday words into something a little alluring, more exotic, like a whisper carried on tropical winds. It's impressive how she mastered it mostly on her own, piecing it together through sheer determination during her university days, without fancy classes or immersion programs, just books, practice, and that unyielding drive that got her through aeronautics and pilot training. Even more so, she turned around and taught it to others—tutoring fellow students to supplement her scholarship, and later, during the pandemic's forced break, setting up online groups for village kids to learn basic English alongside math, giving them a leg up she fought so hard for herself.

She's inspiring in every way: powerful in her quiet command of the cockpit and life alike, smart with that analytical mind sharpened by her brothers and her thesis on fuel efficiency, beautiful with those olive green eyes and silky brown fur that catch the light just right, and damn fine in the confidence that radiates from her every move. All of it wrapped into one incredible woman—the qualities of a perfect wife, if you're honest with yourself, making you wonder how you got so lucky to find her in this vast, chaotic archipelago.

Beyond that, Berlian has shown you layers of her compassion that extend far beyond her immediate circle, into the heart of her country's struggles. Though she couldn't join the August protests in Jakarta directly—her flight schedule kept her airborne, shuttling passengers across the archipelago while the streets below filled with voices demanding change—she made her stance clear in other ways. On her Instagram, with its 50,000 followers drawn to her aviation shots and personal stories, she posted thoughtfully about the causes fueling the unrest: the lawmakers' proposed salary raises amid widespread poverty, the worsening economic conditions squeezing families like her own back in the village, government inaction on rising costs and job losses, and the broader push for accountability and fairer policies. She shared infographics, linked to credible reports, and encouraged dialogue without inciting chaos, always framing it through her lens of gotong-royong, that communal spirit she grew up with, urging people to unite for mutual benefit rather than division.

She's donated quietly too, supporting NGOs that provide aid to protesters—medical supplies, legal assistance, and resources for those advancing goals like economic reform and anti-corruption measures. When you asked her about it during a layover coffee break, she shrugged it off modestly, saying she's apolitical at heart, focused more on flying and family than partisan battles. But then she leaned in, her olive green eyes flashing with quiet conviction, and admitted she's proud to have cast her vote for "the other guy" in the 2024 presidential election, the one who promised real change for everyday Indonesians. The current government, she confided, "ashamed" her as an Indonesian, letting down the values of equality and cooperation that her devout upbringing instilled, even if she's grown more secular herself.

But despite the weight of her words, Berlian doesn't linger in despair. She leans in closer, her olive green eyes lighting up with that quiet fire you've come to admire, and shares her unshakeable optimism. "Things will get better soon," she says softly, her voice carrying the melody of her Javanese accent. She's confident in her people, believing they'll wake up to the realities by the time the 2029 election rolls around—that they'll be smart enough not to hand another term to the current president, choosing instead a path toward true progress and unity. And even if the road twists unexpectedly, she reminds you, Indonesia has always endured, its spirit forged through centuries of challenges, from natural disasters to colonial struggles, emerging stronger each time through that unbreakable gotong-royong.

Then she turns the conversation to you, her hand gently resting on yours, bridging the distance between your worlds. She hopes America will survive its own storms too, coming out better on the other side, with divisions healing and virtues like empathy reclaiming their place. "I know how it feels to be ashamed of your country's government," she confides, drawing from her own experiences with Indonesia's flaws, the subtle prejudices and urban biases she's navigated since leaving her village. But she urges you never to lose hope, to keep fighting in whatever ways you can—whether through quiet acts of kindness, supporting those around you, or simply holding onto the belief that change comes from within, one person, one community at a time. Her words wrap around you like a warm tropical breeze, reminding you why she's become more than just a partner in the skies.

It's moments like these that hit you deepest, revealing how Berlian cares not just for those she knows—her brothers, her village kids, her fellow pilots—but for the public at large, strangers facing hardships she'll never personally endure from her vantage in the skies. That selflessness, rooted in the same rural resilience that bridged species divides in her childhood, makes her even more extraordinary. It solidifies something in you: this woman, with her blend of strength, intelligence, and heart, is the one you want as a wife, building a life where that compassion becomes the foundation for whatever comes next.

As these thoughts swirl in your mind, you can't help but ponder the future of your relationship with Berlian. If things keep progressing like this—or grow even deeper, more intimate—you find yourself imagining asking her the big question: whether she'd want to marry you, to build a life together beyond these stolen moments and cockpit confidences.

Part of you envisions bringing her back to the United States, if the country still exists and holds together amid the rising interspecies tensions and political fractures that seem to worsen by the second. But with that familiar figure back occupying 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, stirring up hatred anew, you're acutely aware of the surging anti-carnivore sentiment sweeping across America—overt speciesism that's not just whispers anymore, but policies and protests that could make life there even harsher for predators like you both.

You worry about what that would mean for Berlian as an immigrant—even a legal one—stepping into a land where her foreign accent, her dhole heritage, and her carnivore instincts might draw not just suspicion, but outright danger. The stares and slurs you've endured back home could pale in comparison to what she'd face, layered with xenophobia on top of speciesism, in a place that's growing less welcoming by the minute. It makes your chest tighten, the thought of subjecting her to that kind of hostility when she's already navigated enough subtle biases here in Indonesia.

Instead, your mind drifts to the alternative: making this archipelago your forever home. You've considered applying for Indonesian citizenship, weaving yourself fully into the fabric of this diverse nation where unity in diversity isn't just a motto, but a lived reality that softens the edges of prejudice. Here, with Berlian by your side, you could spend the rest of your days flying these vibrant skies, building a life grounded in gotong-royong and mutual respect, far from the turmoil back in the States. It's a tempting vision—one that feels increasingly like the right path, as her warmth and resilience pull you deeper into this world.

…continued to the next submission

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