Heartbreak: Indonesia Fall to Vietnam in AFF U-23 Final

 Indonesia’s U-23 national team came heartbreakingly close to winning the 2025 AFF U-23 Championship but ultimately fell 0–1 to Vietnam in the final at Gelora Bung Karno Stadium, Jakarta. Despite carrying momentum from an unbeaten run in the group and knockout stages, Garuda Muda couldn’t find a way past Vietnam’s disciplined defense. The only goal of the match came in the 37th minute when Nguyễn Công Phương capitalized on a loose ball from a corner, silencing a crowd of over 35,000 fans. Indonesia dominated possession but lacked the final touch.

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The tournament had started brightly for Indonesia. They dismantled Brunei 8–0 in their opening match, with Jens Raven scoring an astonishing six goals. They followed that with a narrow 1–0 win over the Philippines and a goalless draw against Malaysia to top Group A. The semifinal against Thailand was a dramatic affair trailing early, Raven’s equalizer pushed the match into extra time, and Indonesia eventually triumphed 7–6 in a penalty shootout thanks to goalkeeper Muhammad Ardiansyah’s crucial saves. The final, however, proved a tougher challenge.

Key players Arkhan Fikri and Toni Firmansyah were unavailable from the start due to fitness issues, robbing Indonesia of midfield creativity. Arkhan’s late entry in the second half couldn’t shift the momentum. Tactically, the decision to deploy three central defenders offered little attacking variation, and Vietnam remained compact until the final whistle. For all of Indonesia’s energy and control, real chances were few and far between.

Minister of Youth and Sports Dito Ariotedjo praised the team’s spirit but emphasized the need for sharper preparation ahead of September’s AFC U-23 Asian Cup qualifiers and the SEA Games in December. Coach Gerald Vanenburg confirmed he would not continue with the team for the SEA Games, ending his tenure after a mixed campaign. Despite the loss, the tournament revealed both promise and gaps: strong individual performances but lingering issues in squad depth and tactical consistency.

Vietnam’s win marks their third consecutive AFF U-23 title and further fuels one of Southeast Asia’s most intense football rivalries. For Indonesia, the dream is still alive—delayed, not denied. The team now turns to the next challenge, carrying lessons from this defeat and the belief that with growth and grit, their time will come.

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When Students Start Asking Why: How Metalinguistic Awareness Begins

     When we think of English class, most of us probably imagine reading, writing, or speaking exercises that follow predictable patterns. But in one junior high school classroom in Tangerang, something else started to happen something subtle, often overlooked, yet deeply important. It’s called metalinguistic awareness, and it quietly shapes how students learn, reflect, and grow as language users. At first glance, metalinguistic awareness might sound like a complex academic term. But it’s actually quite simple. It refers to the ability to think about language not just use it. When students start asking, “Is this sentence correct?” or “Why do we say it this way in English but not in Indonesian?” they’re doing more than practicing English. They’re reflecting on how language works. And that reflection is the key.

In this research, students were not given grammar lectures or worksheets. Instead, they were asked to engage in discussion-based learning. Through group conversations about English texts, students naturally stumbled upon questions of structure, word choice, and meaning. Some paused mid-sentence to correct themselves. Others asked their peers why certain phrases sounded wrong. These moments, though spontaneous, are signs of emerging metalinguistic awareness. What makes this classroom different is the environment. The teacher didn’t just ask for right or wrong answers but encouraged open discussion where curiosity led the way. This allowed students to go beyond using English to actually noticing English its forms, its functions, and its quirks.

Research has shown that Indonesian students often struggle with grammar and structure, even in higher education. They might use writing tools like Grammarly, but that doesn’t mean they’re truly aware of why corrections happen. This study wanted to zoom in earlier, at the junior high level, and see how reflection could naturally arise in a more interactive setting. And it worked. Students didn’t just speak; they listened, questioned, and adjusted. Their awareness wasn’t forced it emerged. The setting also mattered. The school, SMP Muhammadiyah 4 Tangerang, was chosen because of its engaged eighth-grade students. The researcher had previous internship experience there, which built trust and made it easier to observe students in their natural classroom rhythm. What’s interesting is that even without formal instruction in linguistic theory, these young learners showed signs of higher-level thinking just by talking with one another.

The findings suggest something powerful: that metalinguistic awareness doesn’t always need direct instruction. It can be cultivated through classroom design that encourages active listening, collaboration, and self-expression. For teachers, this is a reminder to make space for reflection in their classrooms. For students, it’s a chance to become not just better English speakers but better thinkers. Language isn’t only about fluency. It’s about awareness. And sometimes, the best way to build that awareness is not through rules and drills but through simple, meaningful conversation.

Between Giraffes and Ghost Lines: What Writing About Poetry Taught Me

 Writing about poetry is never just about poetry. It’s about listening closely line by line, breath by breath until something clicks, or at least begins to take shape. That’s exactly what I felt while working on my article about Judith Beveridge’s The Domesticity of Giraffes. What began as a project to compare two translations, one by Sapardi Djoko Damono and the other by ChatGPT, quickly became something much more personal, more difficult, and oddly enough, more enjoyable than I expected.

I chose this particular poem not just because it’s beautifully written, but because it stands out as one of Beveridge’s most celebrated works. The Domesticity of Giraffes received major literary awards in 1988, including the Mary Gilmore Award and the New South Wales Premier’s Literary Award. That kind of recognition told me one thing: this poem matters. And the more I read it, the more I understood why. It’s quiet but intense, strange but familiar. It speaks of captivity, longing, and memory and does so through the eyes of a giraffe. That mix of tenderness and wildness made me want to stay with the poem longer, to see what would happen if I peeled back the language layer by layer.

Judith Beveridge herself is a name that deserves attention. Born in London in 1956 and raised in Australia, she’s not just a poet but also an editor and academic who has played a huge role in shaping modern Australian poetry. Her works often explore the delicate tension between nature, spirituality, and the inner world. What struck me most is her ability to avoid personal confessions in favor of imagined voices—animals, strangers, unknown narrators which paradoxically make the poems feel even more human. That ability is what makes The Domesticity of Giraffes so rich to analyze. It’s not a story about Judith. It’s a story about something bigger perhaps about all of us.

But writing the article wasn’t easy. Translating poetry is like carrying water with your hands: something always slips through. I found myself agonizing over how to explain a single word choice or why one version of a line felt flatter than another. Comparing Sapardi’s interpretation, a seasoned poet who knows when to bend language, with ChatGPT’s more literal, sometimes robotic take, made me question the role of intention, intuition, and even emotion in translation. Is it enough to preserve meaning? Or should we also preserve feeling?

Still, despite the confusion, the rewrites, and the late-night frustration, I found joy in the process. There’s a certain satisfaction in wrestling with ambiguity, in catching the subtle beauty of a metaphor, or in realizing why Beveridge chose to describe loneliness "like smoke." You start the paper trying to explain a poem. Somewhere along the way, the poem explains something about you.

Looking back, this was more than just an academic task. It was a chance to slow down and really listen to Beveridge’s voice, to the giraffe’s silence, and to my own uncertain, curious thoughts. That’s the strange gift of poetry: it makes you work for every inch of meaning, but it always gives something back.

One Star, A Thousand Reactions

Sleman, An incident involving a ShopeeFood driver and a customer in Sleman, Yogyakarta, went viral and attracted public attention, especially from the online motorcycle taxi community. The incident occurred on Friday night, July 5, 2025, in the Griya Nadhira Housing area, Trihanggo, Gamping. According to reports from the police and the media, the incident started from a food order delivered by a ShopeeFood driver to a customer with the initials AAP. After receiving the order, the customer gives the driver a one-star rating, which is considered a form of dissatisfaction because the delivery is considered slow.

The one-star award apparently triggered an argument between the driver and the customer. The two were involved in a fight in front of AAP's house, and the situation was later recorded and spread on social media. In the viral video, a tense atmosphere can be seen between the two sides, although it does not explicitly show an act of physical violence. However, the narrative that developed on social media called for violent actions, so many other ojol drivers were called to come to the location.

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Hundreds of ShopeeFood drivers and other online motorcycle taxis gathered in front of the customer's house at night as a form of solidarity. The crowd that attended had filled the residential area to make local residents feel uneasy. Police from the Gamping Police immediately intervened to defuse the situation and secure the perpetrators so that there would be no vigilante acts. The Gamping Police Chief, Kompol Rudy Prabowo, explained that his party had secured the AAP for further information. Until now, there has been no official report from the victim regarding the alleged abuse. The police also emphasized that the legal process will run according to the rules and appealed to the public not to be provoked by emotions over information on social media that is not necessarily accurate.

The police added that ratings or stars in food delivery services are part of the digital evaluation system and should not cause open conflicts. In case of a misunderstanding between the driver and the customer, it should be resolved amicably or through the service provider's official platform.

 

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This incident shows how sensitive the interaction between customers and drivers can be in online service systems. Things like ratings or complaints can have a big impact on drivers who rely on their digital performance to make ends meet. However, emotional action is not a solution either. The public is urged to respond to this kind of incident with a cool head. Both customers and drivers need to prioritize good communication, as well as resolve problems through official channels. Excessive acts of solidarity can actually trigger an unconducive situation, especially if it spreads through unverified narratives.

 

Why Indonesian Horror Needs More Than Just Ghosts and Screams

 

In recent years, Indonesian horror has gained more spotlight than ever, both at home and abroad. But with that visibility comes a big question: is the genre actually evolving or just becoming louder and more marketable? For every film that genuinely chills and challenges, there seems to be a wave of others that rely on the same recycled elements: dim lighting, sudden screams, shallow plot twists, and the occasional religious undertone thrown in for effect. The horror genre in Indonesia isn’t dying, but it is, in many ways, stalling.

Let’s be honest: horror has always been a safe bet in Indonesian cinema. It sells. It doesn’t need big stars, doesn’t require elaborate sets, and often doesn't even need a strong script. As long as there’s a ghost with long hair and a cursed object, the formula “works.” The problem is, audiences are changing, but the industry’s willingness to challenge them isn’t always keeping up. Many horror films today feel more like content than cinema. They exist to trend, not to linger. You leave the theater scared, maybe, but rarely moved. You forget the story as soon as the credits roll.

This is not to say there aren’t great horror films being made. There are. But the problem lies in the balance. For every title that dares to dig into psychological fear or cultural folklore in a meaningful way, there are five others that simply copy whatever made the last horror hit successful. The industry's dependence on quantity churning out sequels, prequels, and spinoffs—has led to a kind of creative fatigue. It’s no longer about crafting a good story but about how many jump scares you can pack into 90 minutes.

That said, horror still holds unique potential in Indonesia. We are a country full of myth, superstition, and spiritual texture. Horror should be our most powerful genre. It should be a mirror of our fears—not just of ghosts, but of trauma, history, society, and belief. And when done right, it is. Horror can say things that other genres can’t. It can explore buried guilt, collective memory, and the dark side of tradition without feeling preachy. But too often, that opportunity is wasted for a cheap thrill.

What’s encouraging is that a more discerning audience is slowly emerging. Viewers today are not just looking for scares, they’re looking for stories. This should push filmmakers to move beyond formula. It’s no longer enough to rely on a creepy score and a demonic possession subplot. The audience wants horror that feels real emotionally, culturally, and thematically.

So where does Indonesian horror go from here? It can go two ways. It can either keep chasing viral trends and fast box office numbers, or it can take the harder, more meaningful road: investing in originality, trusting in slower stories, and embracing the full depth of our haunted imagination. The demand is there. The audience is ready. All that's left is for the storytellers to trust us and themselves more.