On the second floor of a small house overlooking the Ciliwung River, the laughter of children fills the gentle morning air. The reading space is simple—bookshelves standing quietly, a worn-out carpet spread warmly on the floor—but this is where a big story about our planet begins. The children don’t just listen to fairy tales—they make puppets out of used cardboard, act out stories about floods and plastic waste with small hands full of imagination. Among scissors, glue, and bits of paper, little seeds of awareness begin to grow: caring for the Earth means caring for our home—and that home can begin with something as simple as a leaf not carelessly thrown away.
From the front yard of Teras Ciliwung, a bamboo dock stretches out to the river, built not just with hammers and rope, but with the spirit of togetherness deeply rooted in the community. Bamboo benches stand modestly, welcoming anyone who wants to sit, greet the river, or read poetry among rustling leaves and the slow-moving current. Here, the river is more than a backdrop—it becomes a teacher, a friend, a reason to care. This dock is more than just a path to the water—it’s a bridge to shared awareness, showing that a river can be cared for if we’re willing to show up, stay, and love.
But Ciliwung also has its anger. When the rain pours hard, the currents surge fiercely. The flood sweeps away laughter, carries off books and learning tools that once opened windows to the world. But it’s not the laughter that hurts the most—it’s the silence it leaves behind. That pause pushes us to choose: give up or hold on. And in the middle of mud and destruction, the answer comes without words: neighbors from across the river arrive, lifting fallen shelves, saving soaked books, and bringing hope in the form of warm tea and shoulders ready to carry the load. The river may rise, but solidarity rises higher; the water may rush, but love flows longer.
Right now, Teras Ciliwung is not yet whole. The shelves are still dusty with earth, the books are still few, and the floor still remembers the mud. But we’ve returned to the second floor—with brooms, with nails, with a spirit that refuses to be washed away. The room may be empty, but our hearts are not. This is where we begin again—together, slowly but surely. Because we believe the river is never truly alone, and hope will always find its way—as long as we keep showing up, keep caring, and keep dreaming together.