People always ask me why I became a pilot. They expect some inspiring answer about childhood dreams and the freedom of the sky. And sure, that's part of it—I grew up watching planes take off from the airport near my village, imagining myself in the cockpit. But if I'm being honest, there's another reason I don't always talk about in interviews or school visits.

I became a pilot to prove them wrong.

Every herbivore who ever looked at my teeth and decided I was dangerous. Every teacher who suggested I consider "more appropriate" careers. Every guidance counselor who steered me toward ground-based work because flying required "a certain temperament." Every person who ever said—out loud or with their eyes—that carnivores like me should know our place.

I fly because they said I couldn't.

I fly because when I was in secondary school, my career counselor—a kind-faced water buffalo who smiled when she crushed dreams—told me that while my grades were "impressive for someone like me," I should consider "more realistic options." She had this pamphlet about careers in agriculture, in manual labor, in service industries. Safe careers. Quiet careers. Careers where a predator wouldn't make anyone uncomfortable.

I fly because my university professor, the one who taught aerodynamics, once told the class that predator species had "natural advantages in spatial reasoning" but that this was "offset by temperamental unsuitability for high-stress environments." He said it casually, like it was established fact, while I sat in the third row taking notes. Half the class nodded along. Nobody questioned it.

I fly because during my pilot training interviews, I was asked—more than once, by more than one airline—whether I thought I could "handle the pressure without reverting to instinct." They didn't ask the herbivore candidates that question. I know because I asked them later.

I fly because when I finally got accepted to Trans Indonesia Airlines' training program, another candidate—a mare with decent grades and a wealthy family—told someone in the bathroom that they "always go easier on carnivores." She didn't know I was in the stall. Didn't know I'd hear her laugh when her friend agreed.

I fly because "anyone can be anything" is Indonesia's favorite lie. It's printed on motivational posters in schools. Politicians repeat it during campaigns. Parents tell it to their children like a bedtime story. And it's true—technically, legally true. There's no law that says a dhole can't be a pilot. No regulation that bars carnivores from the cockpit.

But nobody mentions the invisible barriers. The unconscious biases. The thousand small ways the system is designed for herbivores, by herbivores, with herbivores in mind. Nobody talks about how "anyone can be anything" really means "anyone can be anything, as long as they're willing to work three times as hard, accept half the credit, and smile through the suspicion."

I fly to prove that the saying isn't entirely a lie. That despite everything, despite the odds and the prejudice and the fear, a carnivore from a rice-farming village can sit in the cockpit of a Boeing 737 and keep hundreds of lives safe. That species doesn't determine capability. That teeth and instinct don't define your future.

I fly because my younger brothers are watching. Teguh and Gagah, both studying computer science in Jakarta, both facing their own versions of this fight. When they call me tired and frustrated, when they ask if it's worth it, I need to be able to say yes. I need to prove that it's possible, even if it's not easy.

I fly because my parents sold their belongings to help fund my training. My father, who spent forty years selling rice to herbivores who trusted him but never quite forgot what he was. My mother, who taught me to be "twice as good, twice as calm, twice as non-threatening" because that's what survival required. They believed in me even when they were scared for me. I owe them this success.

But mostly—and I don't say this in the interviews or the school visits—I fly because every time I take off, every time I guide a plane through difficult weather or execute a perfect landing, every time I walk through an airport in my uniform with my three gold bars catching the light, I'm proving something.

I'm proving that they were wrong about me. Wrong about us. Wrong about what carnivores can do, can be, can achieve.

And that feels better than anything.

---

My alarm goes off at 4:15 AM. I'm used to it now—the early mornings, the dark apartment, the quiet streets of Kalideres before the city wakes up. I have a 6 AM departure to Makassar today, which means I need to be at Soekarno-Hatta by 5:00 for preflight briefings.

I make my coffee strong. Black, no sugar. My mother always said carnivores should avoid appearing too indulgent—"Don't give them reasons to judge you," she'd say. Even now, in my own apartment where nobody's watching, I can hear her voice.

The uniform goes on with practiced precision. White shirt, crisp and pressed. Black trousers with the perfect crease. Three gold bars on each shoulder—First Officer stripes. The TIA wings pinned just so. I check myself in the mirror, adjusting my name tag. First Officer Berlian.

I look professional. Competent. Non-threatening.

That last part isn't in the dress code, but every predator knows it's part of the uniform.

I learned that lesson early. In flight school, there was this incident during simulator training. One of the instructors—a sambar deer with thirty years of experience—was running us through emergency scenarios. Engine failure on takeoff. I ran through the procedures perfectly: identified the problem, secured the failed engine, maintained control, executed the appropriate checklist.

Afterward, he pulled me aside. "You did well," he said. "But you need to work on your communication style. You were too... assertive. Too aggressive in your callouts. It could make a captain uncomfortable."

I'd used the exact same tone and language as the bunny who'd gone before me. She'd been praised for her "confidence and clarity."

I fly because of moments like that. Because I learned to modulate my voice, to soften my commands, to add "please" and "thank you" to standard callouts that don't require them. I learned to make myself smaller so that herbivores would feel bigger.

And I learned to be so technically perfect that they couldn't deny my competence, even when they wanted to question my temperament.

---

The drive to the airport is quiet. Most of Jakarta is still sleeping, though the trucks are already moving, and the street vendors are setting up for the morning rush. I park my electric car in the employee lot and walk toward Terminal 3, my roller bag clicking behind me on the pavement.

Security recognizes me—they always do. But I still see the moment of recalculation when I approach. The slight tensing of shoulders. The way the goat at the scanner holds my ID just a fraction longer than necessary, checking and rechecking the photo against my face.

"Good morning, Ibu Berlian," she says finally, handing it back.

"Good morning, Mbak," I reply, keeping my voice light and friendly.

Always friendly. Always approachable. Never give them a reason to be afraid.

I've been through this security checkpoint hundreds of times. This guard has scanned my ID hundreds of times. But every single time, there's that pause. That moment where she has to overcome her instinct before she can see the pilot instead of the predator.

I don't blame her. Not really. Evolution is powerful. For millions of years, things that looked like me hunted things that looked like her. That's not prejudice—that's biology. But understanding something doesn't make it less exhausting to live with.

---

The crew briefing room is already populated when I arrive. Captain Suryanto—a Javan banteng, massive and solid—is reviewing weather charts. Two flight attendants, both mouse-deer, are chatting near the coffee maker. A ground coordinator, a young chevrotain, is organizing the departure paperwork.

"Morning, Berlian," Suryanto says without looking up. "How's the family?"

"Good. My brothers are doing well at university."

"That's right, you've got the twins in computer science programs." He grins. "Maybe they can fix TIA's scheduling software. It's been a nightmare this week."

We laugh. This is what I love about Suryanto—he sees me as a pilot first. The carnivore thing is just background information, like being left-handed or vegetarian. It doesn't define our working relationship.

But I notice the flight attendants have moved to the far corner of the room. They're not obvious about it—they're still smiling, still professional—but they've put maximum distance between themselves and me while remaining in the same space. It's unconscious, probably. Instinctive.

I pretend not to notice. We all pretend not to notice. That's how it works.

The briefing is routine. Weather looks good—clear skies, light winds. Our Boeing 737-800, registration PK-TBD, is in good shape. 150 passengers booked. Standard domestic flight, two hours gate to gate. I run through the departure procedures while Suryanto reviews the fuel calculations.

One of the flight attendants—the senior one, named Dewi—mentions that we have a school group on board. Thirty elementary students traveling to Makassar for an educational trip.

"They're herbivores, of course," she adds quickly, glancing at me. "I mean, the whole group. Just... thought you should know."

What she means is: they might be scared of you. Please don't walk through the cabin if you can avoid it. Please don't let them see your teeth.

"Noted," I say simply. "I'll stay in the cockpit unless there's a specific need."

She looks relieved.

This is another thing I've learned: make it easy for them. Anticipate their discomfort and solve it before it becomes a problem. Don't force them to ask you to make yourself scarce. Just do it preemptively, with a smile, so everyone can maintain the polite fiction that species doesn't matter.

---

Growing up in Ciguguk, I was lucky. My father sold rice to everyone in the village—herbivores trusted him because they needed him. Islam helped too. The Quran doesn't distinguish between species; we're all Allah's creatures. Most people in my village actually believed that, or at least acted like they did.

But I knew, even as a kid, that Ciguguk wasn't the whole world.

I remember the first time I went to Bandung for a school competition. I was twelve. My teacher, Pak Santoso—a spotted deer who'd always been kind to me—took our team to the city for a regional science fair. We stayed in a small hotel, and when we went to a restaurant for dinner, the owner asked our group to sit in the back section.

"It's quieter there," she said, smiling at Pak Santoso while her eyes flicked to me. "Better for studying."

We were the only group moved to the back. I was the only carnivore in our team.

Pak Santoso didn't argue. He just shepherded us to the back tables, and we ate our nasi goreng in the section where customers entering couldn't see my teeth from the front windows.

I came in second place at that science fair. The judges praised my project on aerodynamics, and one of them—a water buffalo in an expensive suit—told me I had "remarkable focus for someone your age."

He meant: remarkable focus for a predator. For someone whose instincts should make them scattered, aggressive, unable to sustain intellectual effort.

I smiled and thanked him. Even at twelve, I knew the game.

I fly because of that science fair. Because I learned young that being good wasn't enough—I had to be exceptional just to be seen as acceptable. I had to be twice as smart, twice as hardworking, twice as controlled as my herbivore peers.

And I learned that even then, even when I won, someone would find a way to diminish it. "Remarkable focus for someone your age" really meant "surprising that a carnivore could do this at all."

---

The preflight check is routine. I run through the instruments while Suryanto handles the radio communications. Boeing 737-800, registration PK-TBD, everything nominal. Weather still looks good—this should be an easy flight.

I love this part. The cockpit, with its ordered chaos of switches and displays. The smell of electronics and coffee. The vibration of the engines spooling up. This is my world. Up here, at 35,000 feet, it doesn't matter what I am. I'm just a pilot.

And I'm damn good at it.

"Trans Indo 205, cleared for pushback," the ground controller says.

"Cleared for pushback, Trans Indo 205," Suryanto responds.

We're moving. The tug pushes us back from the gate, and I run through the engine start checklist. Left engine, right engine, both spooling up perfectly. Hydraulics green, electrics green, fuel flow normal.

This is where it all makes sense. Where the years of studying and training and proving myself crystallize into purpose. Where I'm not a carnivore trying to survive in a herbivore world—I'm a pilot preparing for departure.

"Ready?" Suryanto asks.

"Ready," I confirm.

We taxi toward the runway, joining the queue of aircraft waiting for takeoff. Through the cockpit window, I can see other planes—Garuda Indonesia, Lion Air, AirAsia. Some of those cockpits have carnivore pilots too. Not many, but some. We're rare, but we're here.

We're here because we refused to accept the limitations others tried to impose. Because we were too stubborn or too ambitious or too angry to stay in our designated places.

"Trans Indo 205, cleared for takeoff runway 25 Right."

"Cleared for takeoff runway 25 Right, Trans Indo 205."

Suryanto advances the throttles. The engines roar. We accelerate down the runway, speed building—80 knots, 100 knots, V1, rotate. I pull back on the yoke and the nose lifts. The ground falls away beneath us.

We're flying.

This is why I do it. This moment, where the earth releases you and you transition from a creature bound by gravity to something else entirely. Something free.

---

They say "anyone can be anything" in Indonesia. It's a nice saying. Hopeful. Democratic. The kind of thing politicians repeat during election season to prove how progressive we are. And a necessity since we are the most diverse country on the planet, with over 700 species.

It's also partly true.

I am a pilot. I did achieve my childhood dream. I do fly massive aircraft carrying hundreds of lives. A dhole from a rice farming village, now qualified on three aircraft types, logging thousands of flight hours, mentoring cadets.

Anyone can be anything. Look at me. Proof.

But here's what they don't say: "Anyone can be anything... as long as they're willing to work three times as hard, accept half the credit, and smile through the suspicion."

They don't mention the constant calculation. The endless social navigation. The knowledge that every mistake confirms someone's bias, while every success gets asterisked with "for a carnivore."

They don't talk about the mouse-deer who moves to a different treadmill at the gym. The coffee shop owner who never learns your name after six months of daily visits. The neighbors who post warnings about "carnivores on the fifth floor."

They don't mention that "anyone can be anything" is technically true, but it's a lot easier when you're an herbivore.

---

University was supposed to be different. That's what everyone said. "Higher education is progressive," they told me. "You'll be judged on merit, not species."

They were half right.

I was judged on merit. I just had to work twice as hard to prove I had any.

I studied aeronautics at one of Indonesia's best state universities. I graduated in the top ten percent of my class. I worked two jobs to afford my living expenses—tutoring English and working the information desk at the airport. I barely slept. I had no social life. I poured everything into my grades, my projects, my future.

And still, when I applied for pilot training programs, I was asked in interviews: "Do you think you can handle the pressure? Some species are naturally more... reactive under stress."

Reactive. That's the word they use when they mean: Will you lose control and hurt someone?

I wanted to slam my hands on the table and show them exactly how reactive I could be. Instead, I smiled and talked about my simulator hours, my perfect safety record, my recommendations from professors who trusted me in their labs with expensive equipment and complex experiments.

I got into the program. But I never forgot that question.

I fly because they asked it. Because embedded in that question was the assumption that my species made me dangerous, unstable, unsuitable. That my teeth and my instincts were liabilities that needed to be managed, controlled, overcome.

I fly to prove that my teeth and my instincts are irrelevant. That what matters is training, discipline, competence. That a dhole can be just as safe—more safe, if I'm honest—than any herbivore pilot because I've had to prove it every single day of my career.

---

At cruise altitude, I steal a moment to look out the cockpit window. Below us, Java stretches out in shades of green and brown, roads like veins connecting cities and villages. Somewhere down there is Ciguguk, my village, where my parents still live in the same house where I grew up. Where I used to climb to the roof and watch planes trace lines across the sky.

I wonder what twelve-year-old me would think, seeing this. Seeing herself in the cockpit, actually flying the planes she used to dream about.

I think she'd be proud. And maybe a little vindicated.

Because even then, even watching planes from a rooftop in a tiny village, I knew I wanted this. Knew I was meant for this. But I also knew—because kids know these things, pick them up from adults who think children aren't listening—that carnivores didn't become pilots. That this dream was too big, too ambitious, too inappropriate for someone like me.

My parents tried to be supportive, but I saw their worry. Especially my mother's. She wanted me safe, wanted me in a career where I wouldn't face constant scrutiny and suspicion. She suggested teaching, nursing, administration. Good careers. Respectable careers. Safe careers for a carnivore who wanted to keep her head down.

But I didn't want to keep my head down. I wanted to fly.

And the older I got, the more I realized that flying wasn't just about loving planes or wanting adventure. It was about refusing to accept the limitations others tried to impose. It was about insisting that I belonged in spaces where carnivores traditionally didn't go.

It was about being visible, undeniable, excellent.

---

Captain Suryanto is already in the briefing room when I arrive for our next flight. He's reviewing weather charts, and when I come in, he looks up and grins.

"Morning, Berlian. How's the family?"

"Good. My brothers are doing well at university."

"That's right, you've got the twins in computer science programs." He grins. "Maybe they can fix TIA's scheduling software. It's been a nightmare this week."

We laugh, and I feel myself relax. This is the thing about Suryanto—he sees me as a pilot first. The carnivore thing is just... background information. Like someone being left-handed or vegetarian. It doesn't define our working relationship.

But I know his wife sees something different. I've been to their house once for a family dinner he invited me to. I sat across from their daughter and talked about flying, answered her questions about crosswinds and monsoons and emergency procedures. The girl was fascinated, eyes wide, hanging on every word.

Her mother served my tea on a different plate.

Different pattern. Different color. Kept on the far edge of the table.

I noticed. She noticed me noticing. We both pretended it hadn't happened.

That's Indonesia for you. We're better than the West—we don't have their violence, their open hatred, their history of actual persecution. We don't have segregated facilities or explicit bans. But we have this instead: the careful distance, the polite separation, the thousand small ways herbivores tell us we're tolerated, not accepted.

Sometimes I wonder which is worse. The honest hatred that you can fight against, or the polite exclusion that everyone pretends doesn't exist.

---

Boarding is smooth. I do my walk-through—let the passengers see there's a real person flying the plane. Professional smile, confident posture, friendly demeanor.

Most people barely look up. A few nod politely. Some—I can always tell which ones—tense slightly when they see my uniform, then my face, then do the mental math. Carnivore. Pilot. Safety. Trust. The calculation happens in seconds, and I can read the result in their eyes.

A young goat in 12C clutches her daughter a little tighter when I pass. The child is staring at me with wide eyes, curious rather than afraid. Kids haven't learned the fear yet. Not all of it, anyway.

"Good morning," I say, smiling at them both. "We'll be taking off shortly. Should be a smooth flight today."

The mother nods stiffly. The daughter waves.

I keep walking, making my way back to the cockpit. This is part of the job that never gets easier—the exposure, the visibility, the knowledge that some passengers would prefer a different pilot. Not because I'm unqualified, but because of what I am.

But I do it anyway. Because visibility matters. Because maybe that little girl will remember the carnivore pilot who was kind to her. Maybe she'll grow up with less fear than her mother has.

Maybe.

---

Flight school was brutal. Not because of the academics—I've always been good at math and physics. Not because of the flying itself—I took to it naturally, like I'd been waiting my whole life to be in a cockpit.

It was brutal because I was one of three carnivores in a class of thirty-five.

The other two dropped out within six months.

One left after a senior instructor—a sambar deer with forty years of experience—pulled him aside after a rough landing and said, "Maybe this isn't for you. Have you considered cargo handling? Less... pressure."

The landing hadn't been that rough. I'd seen herbivore students make worse landings and receive constructive feedback, encouragement to try again. But this instructor saw a carnivore struggling and decided it was evidence of fundamental unsuitability.

The other carnivore—a young leopard, brilliant and capable—left after failing her simulator check three times. She was actually good, probably would have passed the fourth time, but I heard what some of the other students said: "They should just let her pass. Diversity quota and all."

She heard it too. Decided she didn't want to spend her career wondering if she'd earned anything or if it had all been handed to her.

I stayed. I passed every check on the first attempt. I scored in the top ten percent on every evaluation. I made sure nobody could ever say I didn't belong there.

And they said it anyway.

"She must have had help."

"They always go easier on carnivores."

"Diversity hire."

I heard it all. I ignored it all. I kept flying.

I fly because of those two who quit. Because I understood their decision but refused to make it myself. Because someone had to prove that carnivores could succeed in this field, could meet every standard, could be as good as anyone else.

I fly because giving up felt like admitting they were right. Like accepting that this space wasn't for me, that I should know my place, that I should be satisfied with smaller dreams.

And I've never been good at accepting limitations.

---

Makassar approach is smooth. Suryanto handles the radio while I manage the descent, watching the altimeter wind down, adjusting thrust and angle. The runway comes into view—perfect alignment, just like it should be.

"Gear down," Suryanto says.

"Gear down, three green," I confirm, watching the indicators change.

We touch down soft. Barely feel the wheels kiss the tarmac. I reverse thrust and engage the brakes, and we're rolling toward the gate. Smooth. Professional. Perfect.

"Nice landing," Suryanto says.

I don't say "thank you." I just nod. Because part of me—the bitter, tired part I don't usually acknowledge—wonders if he'd have mentioned it if I were an herbivore. Or if "nice landing" is his way of saying: See? You can do it. You're not as dangerous as you look.

I hate that I think this way. I hate that I can't just accept a compliment without dissecting it for hidden meaning. But this is what living as one in ten does to you. Everything becomes data, every interaction a potential threat assessment, every comment something to be analyzed for underlying prejudice.

It's exhausting.

---

My mother used to say that being carnivore in a herbivore world meant being a bridge. You had to be twice as good, twice as calm, twice as non-threatening. "Show them who you are with actions," she'd say. "Words are just air."

My father embodied this philosophy. He sold rice to everyone, made friends slowly and carefully, earned trust through decades of honest work. He believed in coexistence through patience, through proving day after day after day that carnivores could be trusted.

I respect that path. It's not mine.

I believe in coexistence through competence. Through being so undeniably good at what I do that people have to get past their instincts and see me as a pilot first, species second.

Does it work? Sometimes. Enough times to make it worthwhile.

But there are still days—like today, actually—when I wonder if I'm just lying to myself. If no amount of competence will ever be enough to overcome millions of years of evolution telling herbivores that things with teeth like mine are dangerous.

If "anyone can be anything" is just a pretty lie we tell ourselves to pretend Indonesia is more progressive than it actually is.

---

Between flights, I grab lunch at the crew cafeteria. I see Lestari—a mouse-deer who's one of our cabin crew supervisors. We're friendly, have worked several flights together. She waves me over to her table.

"Berlian! How was the Makassar flight?"

"Smooth. Perfect weather." I sit down with my tray—gado-gado and es teh manis.

We chat about scheduling, about the new routes TIA is planning, about Lestari's upcoming vacation to Bali. Normal coworker talk. Pleasant and superficial.

Then she mentions she's thinking about switching to long-haul routes. "The 787 flights," she says. "Better pay, more international layovers. I heard they're expanding the Dreamliner schedule."

"You should do it," I say. "The international crews seem happy with those routes."

"Yeah, but..." She hesitates, stirring her soup. "I heard they're pretty strict about who they put on those flights. You know, passenger-facing positions. They want a certain... image."

She trails off, but I know what she was going to say. They want the right image. They want crews that make passengers feel comfortable, especially international passengers who might be even more prejudiced than Indonesians.

They want herbivores.

"Well, you'd be perfect for it," I say, keeping my voice light.

She smiles, relieved I didn't make her finish that sentence.

We both know what we're not talking about. We both know that I'll probably never fly long-haul international routes, not because I'm not qualified, but because TIA's marketing department has decided that carnivore pilots don't project the right image for their premium product.

It's not official policy. It would be illegal to make it official policy. But everyone knows.

Another invisible barrier. Another way that "anyone can be anything" comes with unspoken asterisks and exceptions.

---

I think about the high school visit a lot. The one in Central Java, where that kid asked if carnivores should be allowed to be pilots.

His father had taught him that carnivores can't control themselves. That we're dangerous. That we shouldn't be trusted with other people's lives.

The teacher looked horrified when he asked the question. Started to interrupt, to apologize, to shut down the conversation before it could become uncomfortable.

But I stopped her. Because that kid deserved an honest answer.

"Your father is wrong," I told him. "Not about carnivores being dangerous—we can be, just like anyone can be dangerous. But about control."

I told him about the responsibility I carry every time I fly. About the hundreds of lives in my hands. About how a single moment of lost control could kill everyone on board.

"I've never hurt anyone," I said. "Never lost control. Never let my instincts override my training. Because being a carnivore doesn't make you a monster. It just makes you a carnivore. What makes you a good person—a good pilot—is choosing, every single day, to be better than your instincts."

The room was dead silent.

"I've flown over 2,000 hours," I said. "Maybe 200,000 passengers. Every single one landed safely. Not because I'm not dangerous. But because I chose not to be."

I don't know if I changed his mind. Probably didn't change his father's.

But maybe I planted a seed. Maybe next time he meets a carnivore, he'll remember the pilot who told him the truth. Who acknowledged the fear but refused to accept the limitations it implied.

That's all I can do. Plant seeds. Fly planes. Prove them wrong, one flight at a time.

And hope that eventually, enough seeds will grow that the next generation of carnivores won't have to fight as hard as I did.

---

My afternoon flight is to Denpasar. Another 737, another full load of passengers, mostly tourists heading to Bali.

During boarding, a boar in business class—expensive suit, gold watch, the works—stops me. "You're the pilot?"

"First Officer," I say. "Captain Suryanto is completing the preflight check."

He looks me up and down, taking his time. I can see him cataloging everything. The teeth. The eyes. The predator in the pilot's uniform. The thing that shouldn't be here, in this position of authority and responsibility.

"They let carnivores fly now?"

The cabin goes quiet. That special kind of quiet where everyone's listening but pretending not to.

I could be angry. Could be hurt. Could file a complaint—TIA has policies against this kind of thing, though they're rarely enforced. Could educate him gently, diplomatically, the way I'm supposed to.

Instead, I smile. Not my professional smile. My real smile, the one that shows all my teeth.

"They've let us fly for decades, sir. Statistically, we have better spatial awareness and faster reaction times." I lean in slightly. Just enough. "Makes us excellent pilots. We're very good at keeping prey safe."

His eyes widen. Just a fraction. Just enough to show I've made my point.

I go back to the cockpit. Suryanto is trying not to laugh—he heard the whole thing over the intercom.

"You're terrible," he says.

"I'm effective," I correct.

We fly to Denpasar. Smooth flight, perfect landing. The passengers applaud when we touch down, the way they always do on vacation routes.

The boar avoids eye contact during deplaning.

---

Here's what I learned from that exchange: sometimes you can use it. The fear. The prejudice. The assumption that you're dangerous.

You can let them remember, just for a second, that you are what they're afraid of.

Not because you'd ever hurt them—I wouldn't, I never would—but because sometimes the only way to get respect is to remind them why they were scared in the first place. To let them see that you're choosing to be harmless, not incapable of harm.

It's a delicate balance. Play into the stereotype too much and you confirm their worst fears, make things worse for every carnivore who comes after you. But refuse to acknowledge your own power and you become a doormat, someone to be pitied or dismissed.

I'm not proud of using intimidation, even mild intimidation, to make a point. But I'm not ashamed of it either.

Because that boar will remember me. And maybe, just maybe, next time he sees a carnivore pilot, he'll think twice before making assumptions. Or at least he'll keep his bigotry to himself.

Small victories. That's all we get sometimes.

---

Why do I fly?

I fly because I dreamed of it as a kid, watching planes from my rooftop in Ciguguk.

I fly because my parents sold their belongings to help pay for my training, and I owe it to them to succeed.

I fly because my younger brothers are watching, and I need to show them it's possible.

I fly because every young carnivore who sees me in this uniform learns that maybe, just maybe, anyone really can be anything.

I fly because "anyone can be anything" should be more than just a slogan. It should be reality. And the only way to make it reality is to prove it, over and over, until people stop being surprised when carnivores succeed.

I fly because Indonesia likes to think it's better than other countries when it comes to species relations. We point to the West and say "at least we're not like that." We pride ourselves on our tolerance, our multiculturalism, our religious principles that preach equality.

But tolerance isn't acceptance. And "better than the worst" isn't the same as "actually good."

I fly to prove that we can be better. That we should demand more than tolerance. That carnivores deserve full participation in society, not grudging accommodation.

But mostly?

I fly because they said I couldn't.

Every herbivore who clutched their child tighter when I walked past. Every interviewer who questioned my "temperament." Every person who assumed I was dangerous, aggressive, uncontrollable. Every voice that said carnivores should know their place.

I fly to prove them wrong.

And up there, at 35,000 feet, with the sky all around me and the plane responding to my hands—up there, it doesn't matter what I am. I'm not a carnivore in a herbivore world. I'm not one in ten, always calculating, always performing, always proving.

I'm just a pilot.

And I'm very, very good at keeping us in the air.

---

My shift ends at 7 PM. I'm exhausted—two flights, preflight checks, post-flight paperwork, all the social navigation that comes with existing in a uniform while carnivore.

The constant performance. The endless smile. The careful modulation of every word, every gesture, every expression to make sure I'm seen as professional, competent, non-threatening.

It's like wearing a second uniform, invisible but heavier than the one everyone can see.

I drive home through Jakarta traffic, park in my building's garage, take the elevator to the fifth floor. I unlock my apartment door and finally—finally—I can stop performing.

I change out of my uniform. Put on old sweatpants and a t-shirt. Make myself dinner—sayur asem, my mother's recipe. Pour a glass of wine.

I eat alone in my apartment, scrolling through my phone. My Instagram has notifications—more followers, more comments on my latest aviation photos. Messages from young girls asking how they can become pilots. Some from young carnivores asking if it's worth it, if I face discrimination, if they should even try.

I'll answer them all eventually. I'll tell them yes, it's worth it. Yes, there's discrimination. Yes, they should try anyway.

I'll keep being the role model, the success story, the proof that anyone can be anything.

But tonight, I'm just tired.

Tired of proving. Tired of performing. Tired of being twice as good just to be seen as half as capable. Tired of representing my entire species every time I put on the uniform. Tired of being one in ten.

Tomorrow I have a 6 AM flight to Surabaya. The day after, it's Medan. Next week, they're putting me on the new C919 routes—the ones with the Chinese-manufactured planes that TIA is so proud of acquiring. I'll keep flying, keep proving myself, keep being twice as good as I need to be.

Because that's what it takes.

And because up there, when the engines are humming and the autopilot is engaged and I have a moment to just look out at the clouds below and the endless sky above—

Up there, it's worth it.

Up there, I'm free.

Up there, I'm not a carnivore trying to prove I deserve to exist in spaces that weren't designed for me. I'm not one in ten, always aware of the ratio, always conscious of being the minority.

I'm just a pilot doing what I was meant to do.

And in those moments, all the rest of it—the suspicion, the fear, the endless proving—it all falls away.

In those moments, I remember why I started this fight in the first place.

Not just to prove them wrong, though that's part of it.

But to prove to myself that I could. That I deserved this. That my dreams were worth fighting for, even when everyone said they were impossible.

That's why I fly.

And tomorrow morning, when my alarm goes off at 4:15 AM, I'll get up and do it all again.

Because this is who I am. This is what I chose. This is my sky.

And nobody—no prejudice, no fear, no invisible barrier—is going to take it away from me.

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Story and character: Berlian the Indonesian dhole by  Berlian the Indonesian dhole

Art by:  Orilas_/orilas_

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Tags

berlian iiioridasiii orilas_ female indonesian javan javanese indonesia dhole cuon_alpinus_javanicus asiatic_wild_dog canine predator carnivore southeast_asian asian 3d_art 3d_artwork 3d_render 3d_model render standing clothed clothing pilot_uniform pilot uniform professional first_officer copilot busty well_endowed thicc curvy curvaceous brown_fur green_eyes backstory history lore background racism speciesism social_commentary racial_commentary discrimination long_story first_person_perspective