Two Families, Two Stories, One Shared Assurance

Heni’s mobile phone rang while she was slicing vegetables at the kitchen table. She put down the knife and reached for the phone not far from where she was sitting. The name ‘Bang Bay’ appeared on the screen. It was unusual for her youngest son to call so early in the morning, before the sun had fully risen. “Father’s right leg cannot be moved, Mum,” said Bayu (17), his voice panicked and nervous from the other end of the line. Heni was shocked and spontaneously uttered an istighfar. Before she could ask further, the tenth-grade high school student reported that his father’s right hand also felt numb and paralysed. This time, Heni was completely speechless. When Heni left for work, Zulkarnain (51) was still active as usual. There were no signs that her husband was unwell. The 45-year-old woman was stunned and confused. “What’s wrong, Mbak?” asked Nur (35), breaking the silence. Heni explained what had just happened. Immediately, Nur urged her to rush home and take her husband to the hospital as quickly as possible. She advised going straight to the emergency department upon arrival. “Don’t forget to bring his KIS card, Mbak.” Heni had been working at Nur’s house for the past few years, in the Bambu Apus sub-district of Pamulang, South Tangerang. Her own home was not far, less than a ten-minute walk. Upon arriving home, Heni searched for Zulkarnain’s Kartu Indonesia Sehat (KIS). Heni, Zul, and their two children were registered as KIS PBI participants, a scheme for Contribution Assistance Beneficiaries. The four KIS PBI cards were kept neatly in a drawer, though they had hardly ever been used. Not because Heni doubted their benefits, but simply because her family had always been healthy and never needed hospital care. When Heni asked Bayu to book a ride to the hospital, Zul resisted. “Just stay home,” Zul said briefly, closing his eyes. Bayu asked why, but Zul remained silent. Heni knew exactly what was weighing on her husband’s mind. It was not the pain in his right leg or the numbness in his hand. It was the cost. Zul was a manual labourer at a building material shop. He only earned money on the days he worked. His daily income was often just enough to cover the family’s meals. The thought of a hospital bill filled the middle-aged man with dread. Heni then called Nur. “Ma’am, if we use the KIS, do we still have to pay for hospital treatment?” From the other end of the line, Nur reassured Heni and shared a little of her own experience. Whether it was Nur’s explanation or his own realisation of his body’s condition, Zul finally relented and agreed to go. Ten Minutes At the end of June 2026, under the scorching midday sun, Zul arrived at the emergency department of a hospital in Ciputat, South Tangerang. Two nimble nurses assisted him into a wheelchair. Another nurse prepared a bed. A doctor in the emergency room conducted an initial examination. Heni stood by the bedside, occasionally massaging her husband’s hand. Meanwhile, Bayu was directed by a nurse to handle the administrative process. He brought his father’s ID card and KIS PBI card. He hurried to the registration desk and handed over the documents. The administrative officer’s fingers danced across the keyboard as her eyes scanned the monitor. In less than ten minutes, the printer beside her whirred to life. Several sheets of paper were printed. One was handed to Bayu, and the officer asked him to sign at the bottom right corner of the half-A4-sized paper. “The doctor says Father likely has stroke symptoms, Bang,” Heni whispered when Bayu returned from completing the registration. Not a single word came out of Bayu’s mouth. His eyes shifted to his father, lying weak on the emergency room bed. Zul was then transferred to a ward corresponding to his coverage class. He was treated there for five days. Heni, Bayu, and his older sister Elin (21) took turns helping to care for their father. Five days felt like an eternity for the simple family. After five days of treatment, Zul was allowed to go home. He could walk again, though not yet as perfectly as before. His steps were still unsteady. Zul was asked to continue his care with rehabilitation therapy three days after being discharged. Three Years Ago The day after Zul returned home, Nur came to visit with her husband and two children. In the modest, simple house, Zul sat relaxed, leaning against the wall on a thin mattress in the living room. Heni sat beside him, occasionally massaging his legs. “It’s true, we didn’t pay anything at all, Ma’am. When I was discharged, I was just asked to sign a small piece of paper by the officer, and then given a sheet for the follow-up check, for the therapy,” Heni recounted. The answer made Nur pause for a moment. Her memory stretched back three years, when she gave birth to her second child. The delivery process was not entirely normal. The baby’s umbilical cord was entangled, requiring special handling. Now, that three-year-old child was with her, visiting Zul. When settling the administrative process for her discharge, Nur’s husband paid only Rp 35,000. It was not for the treatment or the delivery. The money was to cover the cost of a clay pot, a container for storing the placenta before burial. Nur and her family were registered as Class 1 BPJS Kesehatan participants, with monthly contributions they paid independently. Meanwhile, Heni and her family were registered as KIS PBI participants, a scheme specifically for underprivileged communities. The monthly contributions for this programme are fully covered by the government, either through the state budget or regional budgets. Zul has now fully recovered and returned to his normal activities. Nur, meanwhile, has never forgotten the struggle of bringing her child into the world. Their participant classes are different. Their economic conditions are not the same. Their stories of illness are also different. Yet, these two families meet on common ground: the National Health Insurance (JKN) programme.