Tangerang – The black and green ink that runs down the sides of Ahmad Rezki Fawzi’s face attracts attention wherever he goes.

It’s so thick and intentional that it can’t be ignored. Tattoos are more than just decorations. It’s a shield.

Beneath it are scars from the acid attack that nearly destroyed him. Ten years ago, while he was sleeping, someone poured a corrosive liquid on his face.

“The burn felt like my skin was on fire. I didn’t receive proper treatment. There was pus coming out. Eventually the wound dried and healed,” he told The Straits Times.

For months he struggled with thoughts of revenge.

“At first I kept thinking who did it. It was definitely one of the worst moments of my life. I didn’t trust anyone.”

Now 30 years old, he sits cross-legged on the carpeted floor, holding a Koran in his hand. Djembe drums are nearby. Cigarette smoke hangs in the air. The shelves are lined with books about Islam, history, and philosophy.

The top-down portraits include one of former Indonesian president Abdulrahman Wahid, a symbol of pluralism, and another of the late Wahid. pope francis, He was widely known for his preference for simplicity and for promoting a more inclusive Catholic Church..

This unlikely sanctuary is located in a modest three-story shophouse in South Tangerang, a suburb of Jakarta. It is called Tasawuf Underground.

Part boarding house, part spiritual center, it serves marginalized populations: street punks and young people from broken homes who live on the streets not by choice but by necessity.

Many people struggle with substance abuse.

The rhythm changes during Ramadan, the Islamic fasting month. of young people We fast together and spend long nights in prayer.

For many, observing the holy month with discipline is their first experience.

Tasawuf Underground was founded in 2012 by Ustad Halim Ambiya, a soft-spoken 51-year-old cleric.

Rather than imposing strict rules or moral lectures, he Tasawuf, or islamic mysticism – Focus on self-reflection and develop inner discipline without judgment.

“If you approach them with just sharia, the formal code of Islamic law, they may feel that the law is too strict and reject it. Approaching them is more effective.” Tasawuf” he said.

“I’m a friend first, a father figure second, and a teacher second.”

“I teach them how to purify their hearts, how to feel the presence of God, how to feel,” the cleric told ST.

Since 2017, approximately 500 young people have taken the program. Some stay for months. Others come and go.

Alongside prayer and Quran study, they are also encouraged to study trades such as car washing.

Halim’s approach was shaped by moments of danger.

In 2003, while earning a master’s degree in Islamic civilization in Malaysia, he traveled overland to Bangkok via southern Thailand to participate in an academic discussion.

Mistaken for a rival, he was arrested by a mob outside the hotel.

He believes he might not have escaped unscathed had a young local punk not intervened and hid him in a safe location until calm returned.

“I realized that you can’t judge people by their appearance,” he says.

That encounter changed him.

He began engaging with marginalized youth through conversation rather than condemnation. Wearing his signature Afghan wool beret and jeans, he attended punk concerts, listening more than preaching, and met young people living under bridges and in vacant lots.

He focused on people over the age of 20, many of whom were troubled and tired of living on the streets.

Among them was Mr. Ahmad, who swallowed 20 to 30 tramadol tablets at a time, sometimes taking stronger opioids and washing them down with alcohol.

The medication dulled his pain and gave him the confidence to play music on the street.

“Even if I take medicine, I only feel temporary relief,” he says.

“But when I pray, especially with the guidance of Ustad Halim, the peace becomes deeper and more real. With prayer, I feel like there is something greater than myself. I feel stable and focused.”

To an outsider, punk and piety may seem incompatible. Punk culture, which originated in the United States and Great Britain in the 1970s, is defined by anti-establishment attitudes, loud music, and rebellious fashion such as mohawks, ripped clothing, leather jackets, and heavy boots.

Indonesia’s punk movement emerged in the 1990s, during the last years of the dictatorship under former President Suharto. Bands such as Marginal decried corruption and inequality, echoing the global punk rage, but their roots were rooted in local grievances of poverty, police abuse, and political repression. Today, many street punks make a fuss outside traffic lights and markets, singing the same protest songs to earn some change.

Unlike Western punks, most Indonesian punks officially follow a religion, as listed on their national identity cards, although their observance varies widely.

Herman Hendrik, a researcher at Indonesia’s National Research and Innovation Agency, told ST: “Tasawuf Underground is completely different. It’s not involved in political Islam. The members are everyday Muslims. They don’t suddenly abandon music or dramatically change their appearance.”

The Tasawaf Underground Facility has changed hundreds of lives by providing ex-addicts and people with violent pasts with a path to education, employment, and spiritual peace.

Torian Anugra Perumana’s life could easily have taken a dark turn.

The 38-year-old is currently in the final year of his law degree at Pamlan University, a private university in South Tangerang. At the age of 16, he ran away from home to escape his parents’ constant fighting.

One night, tensions between his friends and the gang escalate into a violent argument. The man died in this battle.

On the streets, violence is rarely carried out within a formal legal framework. There were no arrests or trials. The episode disappeared into the blur of city life. But the memory still worries Mr. Tryon.

“It made me promise myself that I would never let anger control me again,” he told ST.

Life on the streets required resourcefulness. He graduated from high school on his own, earning money by busking at traffic lights and taking on odd jobs.

“We played music, we parked our cars, we did whatever we could to survive,” Tryon said.

he was the first met Mr Halim was skeptical and even challenged the cleric to visit his hangout under the bridge. Mr. Halim has returned many times. One day, Mr. Tryon went to the boarding house to ask for a book on how to pray.

“That’s when I saw it. A library, shelves full of books. I’ve always loved reading. It was like a vast ocean of learning. That’s where my journey with him really began,” he said.

The priest saw potential in this young man and said, “Alcohol and drugs have nothing to do with his future.I saw in him the possibility of studying law.”

He helped Mr. Tryon collect his tuition fees and encouraged him to enroll in college.

“When he said I should study law, I laughed at first,” Tryon said. “I still can’t believe I would even go to university, let alone study law.”

At university, some lecturers were suspicious of him because of his tattoos. “I relied on knowledge, not anger,” he said. “I don’t just read theory; I compare theory to reality, to what’s actually happening on the streets. My knowledge comes not only from books, but from what I have lived.”

Tryon has since gone to the police station with friends and has been negotiating with officers. His ambition is to open a business employing ex-street youth while continuing to busk.

“I’m still a part of them and they’re a part of me. I want to help others and give them the opportunities that were given to me.”

Others have similar stories. Ryan, 32, ran away from home after his parents divorced. “I felt comfortable on the street. There was a sense of protection and a sense of community,” he said.

But that sense of belonging was accompanied by violence and addiction. “People will attack each other over trivial things. When you are drunk and angry, you may act recklessly. ” he said.

During his wanderings, he began to feel a sense of emptiness and fear of death. After searching online, I found Tasawuf Underground.

Ivan Setiawan, 31, also embraced drugs and alcohol as part of his punk identity. “I felt it was cool to be a punk. It was about being myself,” he said.

Now his perspective has changed.

“Before, people saw us as criminals. But now I’m not afraid. As long as I have a good attitude, people will respond well.”

For Ryan, anger has been replaced by faith. “When I have a problem, I turn to God.” – Don’t go on the street. ”

Correction note: A previous version of the article incorrectly listed the names of participants from the Tasawaf underground facility. This has been fixed. We apologize for the error.