This Name Is Mine

Sometimes what we hear is more than a song. It is the story behind a name people defend with everything they have.

This short story was born from the spirit of friends who once shared a stage, only to be divided by a name too large for any one person to own. It isn't my story, only one that sits close to our musical soul.

There is laughter, there is pain, and there are memories of the original singer who was martyred in Gaza. In the end, only one thing remains. A true name will never die.

The evening sky behind the stadium was half red and half grey. Behind the stage curtain, eight souls stood in a circle, each trying to calm their own racing heart.

Friskey, organiser of the Sepentas Legenda concert, clapped twice. “Okay, geng. Every band that's ever used the name Alif Ba Ta Sa is performing tonight. But please, don't fight onstage. There are cameras everywhere.”

Boy Capati pushed back his hair with a grin. “Relax, Friskey. Even if we fight, we'll do it in tempo. At least the rhythm will match.”

Nuar answered without missing a beat. “Your tempo is like a ceiling fan—fast for a moment, stuck the next.”

A brief ripple of laughter broke out, then died when Alif Bakri appeared from behind them in a glittering blazer and a confident smile. “Children of music, don't forget who started all this. I created the name Alif Ba Ta Sa. Don't let anyone try to rewrite history.”

Izzio, who had remained calm until then, looked him straight in the eye. “That name was born when the five of us were together. Not while you were busy writing a contract for yourself.”

“Eh, don't be disrespectful,” Alif Bakri shot back. “If it weren't for me, none of you would ever have been on the radio!”

Acmey stepped forward. “According to you, everything belongs to you. Next you'll be claiming copyright over the air.”

Boy Capati quickly slipped in. “If he's claiming the air, I'm claiming nasi lemak. At least people will get a meal out of it.”

Laughter spilled out for a moment. But the air fell quiet again when Nuar spoke softly. “Muluk is gone, bro. He was martyred in Gaza. And here we are, still fighting over who owns a name.”

Silence. The stage lights flickered across their faces.

Izzio lowered his head, gripping the guitar pick Muluk had once given him. “I only want this name to live in the way he fought for it. Not to be sold off for cheap shows.”

Man Satpam, silent until now, finally spoke. “I know all of you looked down on me when I kept singing under this name. But when I'm onstage, I feel like he can still hear us. I only want to keep his voice from fading.”

Acmey looked from one old friend to the next. “Then tonight, we give him one song. Not for anyone else. For Muluk.”

Friskey was already halfway to panic. “If everyone's agreed, thank God. Just promise no one will throw a guitar.”

A few hours later, the stage lights came on. The audience screamed as the first song's intro began.

Izzio stepped forward. Boy Capati counted the beat. Nuar began plucking the bass strings. Man Satpam took the microphone, his voice rough but alive.

“This song is for our friend Muluk, who carried this voice all the way to the skies above Gaza.”

And when the first line came, it felt as though Muluk's spirit were singing with them.

“This name is mine, I carried its banner. No shadow from yesterday, but blood that runs true.”

The audience fell silent, then rose to their feet. Tears mingled with cheers.

At the end of the song, every member stood in a single line. Izzio looked toward the sky. “Muluk, you can hear us, can't you?”

Boy Capati whispered to Nuar. “If he can hear us, he'll be laughing at my hair. He used to say it looked like instant noodles.”

Nuar smiled. “Even if he's laughing, he knows this name has returned to where it belongs.”

From backstage, Friskey shouted. “Okay, no more fighting. But if you do want to fight, tell me first so I can sell tickets.”

They all laughed.

That night, for the first time in years, the name Alif Ba Ta Sa was spoken not as something to fight over, but as a promise.