The Isbat Shadows

 

They never told you about the moon wars in school. That’s what Eddie Fadlil’s grandfather called them, anyway, sitting on the porch of their Tasikmalaya home, rocking back and forth in that ancient wicker chair that creaked like old bones. The old man’s eyes would get this faraway look, staring up at that same damn moon that had caused so much trouble back in ‘28.

“Government men,” Grandfather would say, his voice dropping to a whisper even though no one was listening but Eddie and the night crickets. “Government men came for my father like he was some kind of criminal. All because he saw a different moon.”

Eddie was ten the first time he heard the story, fourteen the last time. By then, he’d written it off as just another tall tale from a mind going soft around the edges. But that was before he found the letters.

The box was tucked behind a false panel in Grandfather’s study, the wood warped from decades of Indonesia’s punishing humidity. Inside were yellowed papers, brittle as autumn leaves, written in a hand both elegant and urgent.

“I asked for references from religious texts,” his great-grandfather had written, “and I also responded that those who fasted starting Thursday were not obligated to make up for it.”

Eddie ran his finger along the faded ink, feeling the indentations where the pen had pressed hard against paper. He could almost see Kiai Fadlil bin Ilyas, sitting by lamplight, composing these words while outside his window government men waited, their shadows long and dark against the moonlit ground.

Another letter, this one a response: “It is crucial for those who have faith in astronomical calculations to act according to its findings. The experts in hisab have confidence in their calculations… And starting the fast on Thursday is clearly without fault.”

Eddie felt a chill despite the evening heat. The letter was signed by Kiai Wahab Hasbullah himself.

He hadn’t expected to find historical significance while clearing out Grandfather’s house after the funeral. He certainly hadn’t expected to find himself drawn into a decades-old religious controversy about moon sightings and fasting dates. But something about these letters made his skin prickle with gooseflesh.

It wasn’t just history. It was resistance.

---

Dr. Martina Safitry sipped her coffee and studied Eddie across the university cafeteria table. Her glasses caught the fluorescent light, momentarily hiding her eyes.

“Each side made calculations using its own methods,” she said, echoing words Eddie had read in his research. “Your great-grandfather was caught in the middle of something bigger than just a calendar dispute.”

“But why would the government care so much about when people fasted?” Eddie asked, pushing the photocopied letters toward her.

Martina’s mouth quirked into a humorless smile. “Control,” she said simply. “Religious authority. The colonial powers knew that whoever controlled the religious calendar controlled the rhythms of life for millions of Muslims.”

She tapped the table with one manicured fingernail. “But that’s just the surface story. The one they print in textbooks.”

Eddie leaned forward. “What’s the real story?”

Martina glanced around the nearly empty cafeteria. “Have you ever wondered why they call it the Sidang Isbat? The confirmation hearing? What exactly are they confirming?”

“The beginning of Ramadan,” Eddie said, feeling suddenly like a schoolboy giving the wrong answer.

“That’s what they want you to think.” She lowered her voice. “Some of us believe the real purpose of the Sidang Isbat has always been about something else entirely.”

---

The building that housed the Ministry of Religious Affairs was all gleaming glass and polished stone, nothing like the wooden colonial structures Eddie had imagined from his great-grandfather’s time. Security was tight—ID checks, metal detectors, suspicious glances from uniformed guards with hands resting too casually on holstered weapons.

“I have an appointment with Dr. Arwin Juli Rakhmadi,” Eddie told the receptionist, trying to keep his voice steady.

The woman’s fingers clacked across her keyboard. Her face revealed nothing. “Seventh floor. Room 713.”

The elevator doors closed with a soft pneumatic hiss. Eddie pressed 7, then closed his eyes, remembering Martina’s warning.

“Don’t mention the letters. Don’t mention your great-grandfather. Just say you’re researching the history of astronomical calculations in Indonesia. Nothing more.”

Room 713 was unmarked except for the number. Eddie knocked twice, then heard a muffled “Enter.”

Dr. Arwin was not what Eddie had expected. The man was young—mid-thirties at most—with the rumpled appearance of someone who spent too many hours with books and not enough with people. His office was a disaster of papers, star charts, and what looked like ancient astronomical tools.

“Mr. Fadlil,” Dr. Arwin said, not getting up from behind his cluttered desk. “You’re interested in the history of the Sidang Isbat?”

“Yes,” Eddie said, taking the only chair not piled with books. “I’m researching the methods used to determine the beginning of Ramadan throughout Indonesian history.”

Dr. Arwin studied him for an uncomfortable moment. “Just the methods? Not the controversies?”

Eddie hesitated, then decided to risk it. “I’m interested in the contrast between rukyatul hilal and hisab, and how those differences have created tensions over the years.”

“Tensions.” Dr. Arwin repeated the word softly, almost to himself. “That’s one way to put it.” He suddenly leaned forward. “Did you know the Ministry spent over two billion rupiah on last year’s Sidang Isbat?”

“That seems… excessive.”

“Especially considering we already know the astronomical calculations well in advance,” Dr. Arwin agreed. “In my book, I called it ‘redundant, wasteful, and an unnecessary expenditure of funds.’”

“Then why continue doing it?”

Dr. Arwin’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Why indeed.” He reached for a folder on his desk, then seemed to think better of it. “Mr. Fadlil, do you believe in coincidences?”

The question caught Eddie off guard. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“I mean, do you find it strange that every year, religious scholars, astronomers, and government officials gather in a closed room to ‘confirm’ what science has already determined? Do you find it odd that this practice continued even through regime changes, colonial occupation, and revolutions?”

“When you put it that way—”

“And have you ever wondered,” Dr. Arwin continued, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper, “why the Ministry refuses to digitize the records of Sidang Isbat proceedings from before 1955?”

Eddie felt his mouth go dry. “No, I hadn’t.”

Dr. Arwin stood abruptly. “I think our meeting is over, Mr. Fadlil. I’ve said too much already.” He walked to the door and opened it. “Be careful with your research. Some things in our history are better left in the shadows.”

As Eddie stepped into the hallway, Dr. Arwin gripped his arm and whispered: “The moon doesn’t lie, but men do. Remember that.”

---

The dream came that night, as Eddie knew it would. The moon, swollen and yellow as a jaundiced eye, hanging low over Tasikmalaya. Government men in colonial uniforms, their faces obscured by shadow, pounding on doors. And his great-grandfather, standing defiant, pointing to the sky.

“The moon you see is not the moon I see,” he shouted in the dream. “Your moon commands, but mine liberates.”

Eddie woke with a start, sheets damp with sweat despite the air conditioning. His phone was buzzing on the nightstand. Unknown number.

“Hello?” he answered, voice thick with sleep.

“Eddie Fadlil?” A woman’s voice, not Martina’s. “This is Nadia from Abdul Mu’ti’s office at Muhammadiyah. We need to meet. It’s about your great-grandfather’s letters.”

Eddie sat up, suddenly wide awake. “How do you know about the letters?”

A pause. “We’ve always known about the letters, Mr. Fadlil. The question is, how much do you know about what’s written between the lines?”

---

They met in a coffee shop near the Grand Mosque, a place busy enough that two people talking wouldn’t draw attention. Nadia was middle-aged, with a stern face softened by kind eyes. She wore a hijab in Muhammadiyah’s distinctive style.

“Your great-grandfather was brave,” she said after they’d exchanged pleasantries. “Not many stood up to both the colonial authorities and the religious establishment in those days.”

“He was just following his astronomical calculations,” Eddie said.

Nadia smiled thinly. “Is that what you think the letters were about? Astronomy?”

Eddie felt that same chill he’d experienced when he first found the box. “What else would they be about?”

She leaned forward. “Mr. Fadlil, do you know what happened in Indonesia in 1928, the same year your great-grandfather had his… disagreement with the authorities?”

Eddie shook his head.

“The Youth Pledge. The first formal declaration of Indonesian identity separate from Dutch colonial rule. ‘One motherland, one nation, one language.’” Nadia stirred her untouched coffee. “A dangerous time to challenge authority of any kind.”

“You’re saying my great-grandfather’s dispute over the start of Ramadan was political?”

“Everything is political, Mr. Fadlil. Especially religion.” She pulled a small notebook from her purse and slid it across the table. “Abdul Mu’ti wanted you to have this. It belonged to Kiai Wahab Hasbullah.”

Eddie stared at the notebook, its leather cover cracked with age. “Why would Muhammadiyah have something belonging to an NU scholar?”

“Because some things transcend organizational boundaries.” Nadia stood to leave. “Read it carefully. And watch the sky tonight. There’s a new moon coming.”

---

The notebook contained astronomical calculations, yes, but also something else—a code, hidden within the numbers and Arabic annotations. Eddie spent hours at his kitchen table, piecing it together, until the pattern emerged.

It wasn’t just about when to start fasting. It was about when to start fighting.

The different dates for Ramadan had been a signal—a way for resistance groups to identify themselves to each other without alerting the colonial authorities. Those who fasted on the “wrong” day were marking themselves as part of the independence movement.

And the Sidang Isbat? It had begun as a way for Dutch authorities to monitor these resistance networks, gathering all the religious leaders in one place, ostensibly to “confirm” the lunar calendar, but really to watch for signs of coordination and rebellion.

Even after independence, the practice continued. Different regimes, same purpose—control disguised as unity.

Eddie closed the notebook, his mind racing. Was this still happening? Was the modern Sidang Isbat still a surveillance operation, monitoring which groups followed government declarations and which followed their own calculations?

He remembered Dr. Arwin’s words: “The moon doesn’t lie, but men do.”

His phone rang again. The same unknown number.

“Have you read it?” Nadia asked without preamble.

“Yes,” Eddie said. “Is it true? Is this still happening?”

“Meet me at the old observatory in an hour. Bring the notebook.”

The line went dead.

---

The observatory had been abandoned for decades, its once-white dome now stained with tropical mold and graffiti. Eddie picked his way through the overgrown path, the beam of his flashlight catching on broken glass and twisted metal.

The main entrance was chained shut, but a side door hung open on rusted hinges. Eddie slipped inside, the air thick with dust and decay.

“Nadia?” he called softly, his voice echoing in the domed space.

No answer.

The central platform, where the telescope had once stood, was empty except for a small digital recorder. Eddie pressed play.

“If you’re hearing this, I couldn’t make it,” Nadia’s voice emerged from the tiny speaker. “They’re watching me. They’ve been watching since you contacted Dr. Arwin. The notebook contains the truth about the Sidang Isbat—how it’s been used to monitor dissent since colonial times. But there’s more. Look up. Use what’s left of the observatory. See what the government doesn’t want you to see.”

Eddie aimed his flashlight upward. The observatory’s dome was partially collapsed, revealing a slice of night sky. And there, visible through the gap, was the moon—not the full moon Eddie had expected, but a perfect crescent, impossibly thin and bright against the darkness.

A new moon. Just as Nadia had said.

But according to the official calendar, the new moon wasn’t due for another three days.

Eddie felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. Something moved in the shadows behind him—the soft scuff of a shoe against concrete.

“They weren’t just using the Sidang Isbat to monitor dissidents,” a voice said. Eddie whirled around, his flashlight beam slicing through the darkness. Dr. Arwin stepped into the light, his face haggard. “They were hiding something much bigger.”

“Where’s Nadia?” Eddie demanded.

“Probably being questioned by now. They’ll release her—she’s too prominent to disappear—but the notebook might be gone forever.”

“What are they hiding?” Eddie asked. “What’s so important about the moon that they’d spend billions on a fake confirmation hearing?”

Dr. Arwin looked up through the broken dome, his face bathed in silver moonlight. “Not what, Mr. Fadlil. Who.”

He pointed to the crescent moon, so impossibly thin it looked like a scar on the night sky.

“They arrived in 1928, Mr. Fadlil. The same year your great-grandfather saw a different moon than everyone else. Because he was right—it was a different moon. And they’ve been watching us ever since.”

Eddie felt the world tilt beneath his feet, reality shifting like sand in an hourglass. “That’s insane.”

“Is it? Why do you think religious leaders, astronomers, and government officials meet in secret every year? Why do you think they refuse to digitize the old records? Why do they insist on the rukyat method when hisab is more accurate?”

Dr. Arwin’s voice had taken on a feverish quality. “Because sometimes, Mr. Fadlil, the moon you see through a telescope isn’t the moon at all. Sometimes it’s something else entirely. Something watching back.”

From outside the observatory came the sound of cars pulling up, doors slamming. Flashlight beams swept across the broken windows.

“Government men,” Dr. Arwin said with a bitter smile. “Just like in your great-grandfather’s time. Some things never change.”

Eddie clutched the notebook tightly. “What do we do?”

“We look up, Mr. Fadlil.” Dr. Arwin’s eyes reflected the silver crescent above. “We look up, and we keep looking, until we see the truth. Until we see what they’ve been hiding in plain sight all along.”

The observatory door crashed open. Uniformed men poured in, their faces hidden behind tactical masks, weapons drawn.

And above them all, watching silently through the broken dome, the impossible crescent moon glinted like a knowing smile in the darkness.

Sometimes the scariest monsters, Eddie thought as the men surrounded them, aren’t the ones hiding under your bed. They’re the ones hiding in plain sight, disguised as the most ordinary things—like governmental procedures, historical disputes…

…or the moon that has watched mankind since the beginning of time.

---

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

The real horror isn’t in what we can’t see, but in what we’ve been seeing wrong all along. The Sidang Isbat continues to this day, confirming what the heavens have already decided, while scholars debate and governments allocate billions. And somewhere, in the archives of the Ministry of Religious Affairs, the letters of a defiant kiai from Tasikmalaya still exist, warning us about the dangers of looking at the same moon and seeing different things—or perhaps, the greater danger of being forced to see the same thing when the truth is something else entirely.

The moon wanes. The shadows grow. And the confirmation hearing continues, year after year after year.