WAITING IN THE SILENT VALLEY

My name is Shantya Ahmad. I am eighteen years old—young by age, but to my family, I am old enough to carry the weight of life. No longer a child, I’ve stepped into womanhood, quietly and without ceremony, ready to bear the burdens that come with it. I grew up in a remote village, far from the noise and glamour of the city. Here, beauty is not sculpted by surgeons or hidden behind layers of makeup. We wear our bare faces like morning dew—natural, unbothered, and honest. Not because we choose to reject cosmetics, but because we simply cannot afford them. Yet somehow, our beauty still shines. I eat in small portions, not out of vanity, but necessity. With four younger siblings and two parents to feed, I often give up my share so they can sleep with full stomachs. Maybe that’s why I remain slim. I inherited my mother’s delicate features and my father’s tall frame. People say I resemble a city model—fair skin, graceful curves, round eyes with naturally curled lashes, thick untouched eyebrows, and a nose that points like it was drawn by an artist. But I never paid attention to such things until the day a group of trekkers passed through our village and told me I was beautiful. I only smiled faintly and stepped away. Five young men and women had gotten separated from their group while descending the mountain. They took temporary shelter in our home, waiting to reunite with the others. My brother Rudy, sixteen and protective, served them while keeping me at a distance. Our mother had always warned us not to interact too closely with strangers—especially those from the city who occasionally wandered into our village by mistake. I am an introvert. I don’t have many friends. Our family’s financial struggles have shaped me into someone quiet and reserved. Sometimes, when food runs short, I go to bed early to ignore the hunger. I’ve learned to sacrifice without complaint. My siblings and I live simply, but with love. Rudy is in his second year of high school. Ratih, thirteen, is in junior high. Ardy, nine, is in sixth grade. And little Rara, just three, stays home with me. We may lack material wealth, but we are rich in affection and resilience. Rudy once went to school barefoot because his shoes had fallen apart. The teacher scolded him and refused to let him enter the classroom. So Rudy stood outside, peeking through the window, listening intently. He still topped the class. God may not have given us riches, but He gave us bright minds. Ratih and Ardy excel too, despite being teased for their worn bags and torn shoes. I always remind them: intelligence shines brighter than appearances. One afternoon, Rudy and Ardy went to the mountains to gather firewood. They returned with a young hiker Rudy had carried on his back. The man had sprained his ankle and couldn’t walk. Rudy laid him gently on the bamboo bench beneath our jackfruit tree. My mother, who knows traditional healing, mixed herbal medicine from plants around our home. She massaged the ankle slowly, then twisted it until it cracked—a sound that made the young man wince. But strangely, the pain faded. She wrapped the ankle with cloth to keep it steady, forbidding him to move until the bone settled back into place. That day, beneath the jackfruit tree, I watched quietly. I didn’t speak. But something inside me stirred—a sense that life was changing, that my story was beginning. Mother told him to rest for a few days at our house. Around here, there’s nowhere else to go—no motels, no guesthouses. Our home sits close to the valley, and the nearest neighbors live kilometers away. We may be poor, but our hearts are generous. We never hesitate to help those in need, offering whatever we can—not money or material things, but kindness and care. Rudy, my brother, was busy tending to the guest he’d found that day. He moved the young man into his own simple bedroom, cleaned the space, changed the sheets and pillowcase, and offered his bed without hesitation. Mother asked me to prepare porridge and hot tea to help lower the man’s fever, while Rudy gently placed a damp towel on his forehead. The man shivered, his body weak from the sprain and exhaustion. Not long after, Father returned from the plantation. Mother quietly told him not to make a noise. He understood immediately—there was a guest in the house, even if he didn’t know who. “Who is that, le?” Father asked Rudy. Le is a common nickname for boys in Javanese families. Rudy shook his head. “I don’t know his name,” he whispered. “Ardy and I found him passed out in the valley. Looks like he slipped while coming down the mountain.” Father approached the man, placed a hand on his forehead, and frowned. “He’s burning up. His clothes are soaked in sweat.” “That’s the effect of the sprain and the herbal medicine,” Mother replied calmly. She had treated many sick people before and knew what to expect. “The fever will break by tomorrow.” “Le, take off his shirt and find a clean one in his bag,” she instructed Rudy. Rudy nodded, opened the man’s mountain bag, and did as he was told. By the next morning, the stranger was feeling better. He sat up on Rudy’s wooden bed and tried moving his leg. At the time, I was alone at home with my youngest sister, Rara, who was busy playing with our squeaky chicks. My parents had gone to work, and my siblings were off at school. I was hurrying from the kitchen when I heard the sound of plates crashing—prank! I rushed in and found the man crouched down, trying to gather the broken pieces. “Oh, let me do it,” I said quickly, kneeling to clean the mess. “Sorry, I accidentally knocked them over,” he said, stammering with guilt. “It’s okay,” I replied with a nervous smile. He looked at me, trying to see my face. I hadn’t realized I was facing him directly until I brushed aside my long hair, revealing more of myself than I intended. He seemed surprised. I quickly looked down, avoiding his gaze, and continued cleaning the broken plate. Without another word, I rushed back to the kitchen. Honestly, I was nervous. I’d seen his face—just a glimpse—and I couldn’t lie. He was handsome. My heart raced, and I couldn’t bring myself to look at him again. I saw him trying to speak, but I left before he could say anything. That morning, I cooked one of the chickens Rudy had caught and cleaned before school. Mother had asked for one to be prepared for our guest, saving the rest for our lunch. We always serve guests with our best, even if it means sacrificing one of our egg-laying hens—Rudy usually sells the eggs at the weekend market. I made a large pot of Indonesian chicken soup, using fresh spices and vegetables from our garden. I pulled carrots, potatoes, scallions, and ginger from the soil, and picked ripe tomatoes and chilies. The soup simmered in our big clay pot, filling the house with a delicious aroma. Smoke from the kitchen drifted into the room. I pretended not to notice the pair of eyes watching me. He offered to help, but I told him Mother had instructed him to rest. Moving too much could worsen his sprained ankle. He sat back down, scratching his head awkwardly. The next day, he left—despite Rudy’s suggestion to stay one more night to fully recover. His friends arrived in a car to pick him up. They thanked us, especially Rudy and Ardy, who had found him in the valley. The young man thanked us repeatedly, even kissed Mother’s hand in gratitude. Before leaving, he gave Rudy a pair of shoes—branded ones. To us villagers, whether expensive or not, they were extraordinary. We appreciated the gesture deeply. But we never help for reward. We do it out of humanity. Rudy was stunned. The shoes were something he had always dreamed of wearing to school. But Andrew—the stranger’s name—left more than just shoes. He also gave Rudy his backpack, some clothes, and pants. On the table near the kitchen, he left a plastic bag filled with chocolates, snacks, canned food, and instant noodles. I think he asked his friends to bring groceries for us. Just a guess. When I picked up the bag, I found a folded piece of paper inside. I called out to Rudy. “Rudy, come here. Look, he left a note.” “Andrew. His name is Andrew,” Rudy said softly. “Oh,” I whispered, my lips forming the shape of an ‘O. Rudy smiled faintly, but his eyes looked sad. He didn’t take the note from me. Instead, he turned away and walked off with his head down. I didn’t understand why Rudy seemed so emotional. Maybe Andrew’s kindness had touched him deeply. I remembered how they laughed together in the evenings, sitting side by side while Andrew showed them the contents of his mountain bag. I watched from afar, never daring to come closer. Mother had warned me to keep my distance, especially from male guests. She feared the village would judge me harshly if I were seen as flirtatious or improper. I covered my face, imagining the shame if people misunderstood. Just then, Rara toddled over and asked in her sweet voice: “Mbak, why are you crying?” I was startled, then giggled. “Who says I’m crying, ha?” I teased, rolling my eyes and tickling her round tummy. She laughed and begged me to stop, but I kissed her instead. She hugged me tightly and rested her head on my shoulder, spoiled and content.