A thought from New Zealand, by Muslim Co-Chair Rito Triumbarto, presented as a reflection at the Wellington Abrahamic Council Meeting, 1 December 2025
They say home is where your heart is. My heart is back in Indonesia — where the call to prayer marks the rhythm of the day, and faith is a natural, open part of life.
Eight years ago, I moved to New Zealand. I came looking for opportunity and the peaceful, green land I’d heard so much about. And at first, I found it — or so I thought. It felt calm, but looking back, I realize that calm came partly from something I wasn’t used to: blending in.
For a few years, my faith was just for me and my family. Prayers at home, small gatherings with other Indonesians. Out in public, I was just another person. No one stared. No one commented. I thought that meant I was accepted. I didn’t realize it just meant I was invisible.
Then March 15th, 2019, happened.
The quiet that followed wasn’t peaceful — it was heavy. Full of shock. Our community was seen — not as neighbors or friends, but as targets. Suddenly, being invisible felt dangerous. How could such hate hide in a country known for its kindness?
In the weeks after, there was an incredible wave of love. People said, “They are us.” There were flowers, vigils, kindness everywhere. It felt like maybe, from something so awful, real belonging could grow. It felt like the country had decided: hate wouldn’t win.
But time passes, and life moves on. And lately, I’ve started to feel a new kind of unease — maybe even harder to shake than the trauma of that day.
It’s the slow understanding that here, in this same country that stood with us, it’s perfectly legal for someone to stand in public and shout hate against people like me.
Many here see that as a sacred part of freedom. To me, it feels like a luxury I can’t afford. My safety in practicing my faith now feels shaky — weighed against someone else’s right to say I don’t belong. The same law that protects my sister’s right to wear her hijab also protects someone’s right to call it a symbol of oppression.
I’m stuck between two realities: the real warmth and welcome I’ve felt from my Kiwi friends, and the cold truth of a system that gives a voice to those who hate me for what I believe.
March 15th was a horrible, single act of evil. But this — allowing public hate as a matter of right — is like a slow sickness. It quietly tells you that you’re only tolerated, not truly accepted. That your place here can be questioned anytime.