WAITING IN THE SILENT VALLEY

A charming green valley

We lived in a quiet village nestled at the foot of a hill, surrounded by the embrace of the mountain. Our home was simple—wooden plank walls, a worn tile roof, and a rough cement floor passed down from my father's parents. My father has only one sibling, his younger brother, Uncle Zidan, who once left to seek his fortune abroad in Malaysia, our neighboring country.

Since Uncle Zidan’s departure, we’ve had no news of him. Years have passed, and even after our grandparents died, we still don’t know where he is. There was no way to reach him, no letters, no calls. The house we live in today was left to my father and Uncle Zidan—a modest inheritance from their parents.

Despite its age, this house means everything to us. It gives our family shelter, warmth, and a place to call home. We feel blessed to have it. The yard is spacious, and we make good use of it by growing vegetables and fruits—simple crops that help us stretch our limited budget. We plant chilies, tomatoes, onions, garlic, potatoes, carrots, and more. These ingredients become our kitchen staples, saving us from having to buy them.

Sometimes, when the garden is generous, Rudy gives me a handful of fresh produce and says it helps ease our expenses. He also often goes fishing in the river, taking Ardy with him. The fish they catch are either sold at the market or offered to neighbors, going door to door with hopeful smiles. Often, the buyers only pay a small amount, saying:

Ah, it’s just fish from the river nearby.

My younger siblings are polite and well-mannered. They never argue or talk back. If they disagree with a price at the market, they simply walk away quietly, sometimes pausing to take a deep breath. We’ve learned to accept life as it is—challenging and modest—but we remain grateful. God has given us breath, health, and a family that loves each other deeply.

We live in a remote village on the outskirts of Central Java, Indonesia. The land is fertile, the air cool and fresh. Breezes sweep through our valley, and the water that flows from the mountain beside our house sings with a gentle gurgle—nature’s honest music. I love the atmosphere here. It’s real, peaceful, and I’m reluctant to ever leave it.

Life at the foot of the mountain begins early. Cold, foggy mornings are our daily rhythm. There’s no such thing as laziness here. Sleepiness is not an excuse. While city visitors may struggle to rise early, we villagers know that the day’s fortune is gathered with the sunrise. As the elders say, “If you sleep past the rooster’s crow, the blessings are already taken.”

As the eldest of five siblings, I carry the weight of responsibility. Since my teenage years, I’ve cared for my younger siblings while my parents work as farm laborers. I’ve had to bury my dream of continuing school—our financial situation simply doesn’t allow it. But I never gave up on learning. I’m curious, quick to understand, and eager to grow.

After finishing secondary high school, I stayed home to become a second mother to my siblings. I cook, clean, prepare their school needs, help with homework, and manage the household while my mother works in the fields. In my spare time, I learn from a smartphone—a gift from my aunt Rinie, who works in Hong Kong as a domestic helper. She brought me secondhand clothes, a pair of high heels I’ve never worn on our unpaved roads, and the phone that became my window to the world.

It was the first luxurious gift I’d ever received. Even though it wasn’t new, I couldn’t stop thanking God. My parents could never afford such things, no matter how hard they worked. Aunt Rinie even taught me how to use the phone, loaded it with an internet package, and showed me how to top it up when the data ran out.

I use it to learn positive things—especially cooking. Since we don’t have a refrigerator or money for market meat, I cook with what we have. Sometimes, when my father helps neighbors s*******r cows, they give him leftover cuts. My mother dries the meat and hangs it in the kitchen. We fry it when there’s nothing else to eat with rice.

The rooster crowed from the coop, signaling morning. The cold mountain wind pierced my skin. I squirmed under the blanket, hearing rustling from the kitchen. It must be Mother—awake as always before dawn. I sat up and glanced at the old wall clock hanging on our wooden wall. It was half-past four. Dawn was breaking.

I rose from my creaky wooden bed, careful not to wake my sisters. I gently covered them with the blanket, grabbed my sweater from the hanger behind the door, and tied my jet-black hair with two rubber bands. On tiptoe, I stepped out and closed the door quietly.

Mother noticed me and smiled. She was boiling water for coffee.

I went to the dish rack, but she had already washed everything the night before. I washed my hands and face to shake off the sleep. Then, Mother handed me four eggs and a bunch of fresh spinach—she must’ve picked it from behind the house earlier. I was excited to try a new recipe I’d seen on YouTube the night before.

Mother watched me with a smile as I cracked the eggs and followed the video on my phone. By five o’clock, breakfast was ready. I rushed to wake Rudy and Ardy, then gently nudged Ratih, signaling her to move quietly so she wouldn’t wake little Rara.

It was still pitch black outside, the trees casting deep shadows around the house.

As I rubbed my eyes, a shadow flickered past.

Startled, I searched the dim light, now slowly giving way to dawn. I heard the c***k of wood—footsteps. I turned quickly, alert like a character in an action movie, ready to defend myself.

Suddenly—

“Huuh!!” someone shouted behind me.

I jumped and screamed, “Awww!!”

Rudy burst into laughter. He had just finished showering at the spring beside our house. The water comes straight from the mountain—icy cold, but we’re used to it. Once it touches your skin, the shock fades, and your body adjusts.

My three younger siblings had finished bathing and were dressed neatly. Their uniforms were worn and faded, but clean. I had washed and folded them carefully, smoothing out the wrinkles so they looked freshly ironed. They ate breakfast quietly. I watched them one by one, and a smile crept across my lips. They touched my heart.

Rudy, though still a teenager, looked mature. His hard work and sun-darkened skin made him seem older than sixteen. His body was strong—not from gym workouts, but from carrying sacks of rice and farm goods for wages. His nose was sharp, his eyebrows thick. If he had been born into a wealthy family, he might’ve looked like one of those handsome teen actors on TV.

After my parents left for work and my siblings went to school, I began my daily chores. Rara was still asleep. I stepped outside and looked toward the hill. The sun peeked over the horizon, smiling at the earth. I raised one hand in salute, squinting against the glare.

The sun’s warmth began to melt the mountain’s chill. The scenery at the foot of Mount Lawu was breathtaking. Green trees stretched as far as the eye could see. The mountain stood tall, its peak wrapped in mist—a majestic sight.

The sound of water trickling from the mountain was like a lullaby, soothing and pure. Birds chirped in harmony, their songs echoing through the forest. It reminded me of the Creator, the one who made all this beauty. And I, a village girl with quiet dreams, stood in awe of it all.