Celebrating Independence in the Ancestral Land of the Batak

There are many ways to celebrate independence.

For my family, August 17, 2026, was more than a day when the red-and-white flag flew proudly across the nation. We celebrated Indonesia’s 81st Independence Day far from home, on an island steeped in history, culture, and breathtaking beauty—Samosir Island, rising from the vast waters of Lake Toba in North Sumatra.

It was our second day on the island.

After spending the previous day wandering through the landscapes and quiet charm of Samosir, we prepared to leave the island and return to Medan. But before heading to the harbor to board the ferry, we decided to make one last stop in Tomok Village, in Simanindo District, Samosir Regency.

That brief decision to linger in Tomok turned out to be one of the most memorable moments of our journey.

Tomok felt like a doorway into another age.

Here, the past did not seem distant or buried beneath the weight of history. It stood before us—in timber, stone, carvings, and stories—quietly preserving the heritage of the Batak Toba people.

One of the first things that captured our attention was the Rumah Bolon, the traditional house of the Batak Toba.

Even from a distance, its form is striking.

Its soaring roof and distinctive wooden structure reveal a remarkable architectural tradition, crafted long before modern technology transformed the way people built their homes.

Yet the Rumah Bolon is far more than an object of beauty.

Its form, carvings, and spatial arrangement carry layers of meaning—values and traditions passed from one generation to the next.

Standing before it, I found myself wondering about the people who built it centuries ago. How did they shape those massive pieces of timber? What tools did they use? What knowledge was passed from father to son, from one generation of craftsmen to another?

The intricate carvings speak of patience, precision, and an extraordinary intimacy with wood.

What fascinated me most was not simply the craftsmanship, but the fact that the work of those long-gone hands remains visible today.

In an age when modern buildings can rise almost overnight, the Rumah Bolon seems to whisper a different lesson: a house is not merely a shelter. It can also be an identity, a symbol of togetherness, and a living record of a people's journey through time.

From the Rumah Bolon, we continued toward another site steeped in history—the ancient tombs associated with King Sidabutar.

The old stone graves seemed to stand quietly against the passing of time, bearing witness to generations that had come and gone.

There was something deeply contemplative about being there.

The place was quiet, yet that silence awakened a thousand questions. Who were the people who once walked these paths? What did they dream of? What kind of world did they know? And what remains of their stories after so many years have passed?

Not far from the tombs stood another remarkable figure—a large wooden statue known as Sigalegale.

To me, Sigalegale was more than a wooden statue.

It seemed to carry within its silent body an entire chapter of Batak Toba history.

According to local tradition, Sigalegale was once used in a funerary ritual. The wooden figure could be made to move as though it were dancing the manortor, the traditional Batak dance.

Hidden strings were attached to different parts of the statue’s body and connected to the platform on which it stood. From behind, performers manipulated the strings, bringing the wooden figure to life in a manner reminiscent of a marionette.

There is also a traditional belief that the number of strings used to move Sigalegale corresponds to the number of tendons in a human hand.

Today, the ritual is no longer performed in the same way.

Sigalegale simply stands in silence before the Rumah Bolon, preserved as part of a cultural heritage that visitors can still encounter.

And yet, strangely enough, its silence seems to speak.

It does not move, but the stories surrounding it invite us to imagine another world—a world in which ancestral traditions, rituals, grief, and remembrance were woven deeply into everyday life.

Our visit to Tomok became even more memorable when we had the opportunity to wear one of the most recognizable symbols of Batak Toba culture: ulos.

At first glance, it is simply a beautiful woven cloth.

But beneath its colors and patterns lies a profound philosophy.

Ulos is traditionally associated with warmth—a cloth used to shelter the body from the cold. In Batak philosophy, human beings are believed to need three sources of warmth: the sun, fire, and ulos.

So when the cloth was draped over our shoulders, it felt like more than simply wearing traditional attire for a photograph.

It felt as though we were briefly wrapped in a story.

A story of affection, blessing, dignity, kinship, and unity.

Its colors, too, carry meaning. Red speaks of courage, black of leadership, and white of purity. Threads of gold or silver add another layer of beauty, reflecting the patience and artistry of the people who weave it.

By the time we left Tomok, I realized that we had not merely visited a tourist destination.

We had been invited into a living culture.

There was a house that told us how the ancestors lived. There were ancient graves that reminded us of those who came before. There was Sigalegale, standing quietly with its stories of ritual and remembrance. And there was ulos, teaching us that a piece of woven cloth can carry messages of love, blessing, and human connection.

We encountered all of this on the very day Indonesia celebrated its 81st year of independence.

In that sense, our Independence Day celebration became something more profound.

Perhaps independence is not only about remembering how a nation won its freedom.

Perhaps it is also about preserving the cultural inheritance that freedom gives us the right—and the responsibility—to cherish.

As we finally left Tomok and headed toward the harbor for the ferry back to the mainland, I turned around for one last look.

The Rumah Bolon stood quietly.

The ancient tombs remained beneath the passing sky.

Sigalegale kept its silent watch.

And the ulos still rested across our shoulders.

For a moment, it felt as though the past had traveled with us.

And perhaps that is what makes a journey truly meaningful.

We do not return home carrying photographs alone.

We return carrying stories.

Stories that stay with us long after the road disappears behind the window, long after the ferry reaches the shore, and long after the journey itself has become a memory.