The Feeling That Sustains the Republic

On a quiet slope of Mount Batukaru, Bali, a farmer named Nanang Lecir once answered two questions posed by an old white-bearded man:
"Why does a devoted teacher always prioritize their students? And why does an intelligence agent always choose sacrifice?"

Nanang Lecir gave only one word in reply: rasa—feeling.
The feeling of belonging. The feeling of affection. The feeling of compassion. And the feeling of loving the nation, with the red-and-white flag as the center of its vibration.

This story may be fictional, but the value it holds is profoundly real: that this republic stands not only upon the formal foundations of the state, but also upon silent acts of devotion. Those who are absent from official history, yet are in fact the ones who sustain the country—teachers in remote areas, small farmers who secure national food supplies, and public servants who live in quiet dedication and risk.

In the national development narrative, they are often absent from the grand stage. Their names are rarely mentioned. Their faces do not grace forums or media screens. But they possess an inner sense, a feeling of value far beyond the logic of wages or recognition.

This is where our reflection becomes urgent: in an era when many aspects of public life are dominated by image-making and transactional politics, rasa becomes a rare commodity. Sincerity is replaced by self-interest. Devotion often requires a spotlight to be acknowledged.

Yet historically, this republic was built by people like Nanang Lecir. Ordinary people who consciously chose the quiet path. They did not seek reward. They did not wait for applause. They simply worked with rasa—a feeling that is the very core of national values.

So we must ask: Does the republic still nurture this feeling?
Does the state system still honor and make space for silent service?
Or has every value now been reduced to numbers and algorithms?

In a political landscape increasingly driven by pragmatism, and an economy filled with relentless competition, we must revive the awareness that not everything important must be seen, and not everything that matters needs to be loud. This republic cannot survive on elites and policies alone—it needs the rasa of ordinary citizens who remain loyal, even when unseen.

In a world growing ever noisier, perhaps we need more voices from Mount Batukaru: reminding us that service is not about the stage—it's about rasa.

By: Ngurah Sigit
The author is a sociologist, cultural observer, and media critic.