Date: Mid-1987
Location: Lawang, Matur District, Agam Regency
Rakha's rain gauge wasn't the end.
It was the beginning.
In the weeks that followed, a quiet revolution began to stir in Lawang.
The farmers who once shook their heads at "anak kecil main kabel" now came with questions. Bent old men with sunburnt arms leaned on their hoes and asked about cloud formations. Teen boys who used to mock Rakha's neat handwriting now followed him across the fields, carrying sticks and buckets like apprentice surveyors.
They didn't stop using instinct.But they began pairing it with understanding.
Rakha worked in silence most mornings. After Fajr prayers, he sat cross-legged on the floor with a roll of recycled parchment, a bamboo ruler, and a stick of charcoal made from crushed coconut husk.
He studied the flow of things — how rainwater slid off roofs, where puddles stayed longest, how sugarcane rows bent after a storm. He traced these patterns onto his map, marking elevation drops, footpaths, irrigation ditches, and water wells.
By the end of two weeks, he had built a floodplain and collection flow chart of the entire lower village sector — from the mosque to the old riverbend.
He named it:
Peta Aliran Air: Untuk Sawah dan Masa Depan
(Water Flow Map: For Our Fields and Our Future)
He Didn't Work Alone
Rakha had no formal team. But he built one — slowly.
Ilham, a lanky 11-year-old with a knack for climbing, helped tie red string between poles to mark slopes.
Yayan, whose father owned a buffalo, dragged logs for Rakha's elevation demos.
Even Pak Rahmat, the quiet carpenter, offered him a hand-carved pointer stick after seeing the boy hunched over his maps at dusk.
Every gesture of help, every act of faith, strengthened the project — and quietly, united the kampung.(village)
It was Thursday night, the musyawarah kampung — the monthly village council where elders drank warm ginger tea and discussed crops, births, and fences.
When Ustaz Mahmud stepped forward and announced:
"I bring a voice younger than any we've heard — but wise enough to deserve your ears,"
…they expected a clever poem. Maybe a school trick.
Instead, Rakha stepped up with his map — taller now, hair slicked neatly, pointer in hand.
He didn't stammer. Didn't bow. Just pointed.
To the map.To the dry zones.To the overflow paths.To the crops most vulnerable in each zone.
Then he said:
"This is not just for us. It's for our children. So we don't guess when to grow — we know."
The silence that followed was long.
Not because they didn't understand.
But because they did — and they had never heard a five-year-old speak like that. Calm. Clean. Clear.
Pak Ahmad finally grunted:
"And you did all this without pay?"
Rakha smiled. "I don't need pay, Pak. Just trust."
[SYSTEM NOTICE]
Village Impact Increased: +12%Project Unlocked: Community Irrigation Guidance MapLocal Cohesion Boosted: +8%
Milestone Approaching…
Keep acting with intention and service.
In the early dawn before the call to prayer, Rakha often followed his father, Halim, into the fields. Not just to walk. But to learn.
"Look at your hands," his father said once, handing him a rusty parang.
"What are they good for if they don't know the pain of effort?"
So Rakha tilled. He weeded. He carried water. He cut sugarcane until his fingers blistered — and said nothing. That silence earned his father's quiet nod.
But it wasn't just the fields Halim taught in.
Each evening, after Maghrib, they stepped into the open yard behind their house — bare earth, no mats. Only stars above and the smell of lemongrass in the air.
There, Halim would wrap a black sash around his waist and gesture silently. And Rakha would fall into stance, legs wide, fists loose.
Silat.
The ancient art of the body. Of defense. Of presence.
His father didn't go easy.
He struck without warning. Tripped him with his cane. Pinned him gently but firmly in the dust.
"Control your body. Control your breath," he'd say, as Rakha gasped through his nose."A leader who panics… dies first."
One night, after Rakha misstepped and fell flat on his back, he groaned and sat up with a wince.
"Why do we have to fight like this?" he muttered, rubbing his ribs.
Halim lowered himself beside him, resting his elbows on his knees. His voice was soft, almost sad.
"Silat bukan hanya untuk bertarung, Nak.""It's not just for fighting."
He scooped a handful of dirt and let it fall between his fingers.
"It's for restraint. For knowing when not to strike. For standing straight when others bend.""For protecting—not dominating."
Rakha looked up, puzzled.
Halim smiled.
"Your grandfather taught me, during the riots in '65. He said: 'The blade is not the power. The calm hand that holds it… is.'""Silat is our war dance, yes. But it's also our prayer. You bow before you fight. You end with a step back. You offer peace first — but never fear."
He ruffled Rakha's hair.
"And one day, when you're not fighting people but ideas, you'll still need the same stance. Wide base. Calm heart. Eyes open."
Rakha absorbed it all. Not just the words — but the weight.
He fell again the next night. And again. And again.
But he got back up.
Because somewhere deep inside, even at five, he already believed:
If I want to lead men one day… I need to earn their strength first.
POV: Siti Halimah
While Halim shaped their son's body with blades, sweat, and sugarcane, Siti Halimah worked on something more invisible — his soul.
She didn't speak in commands. She taught in stories.
Every night, after Rakha had eaten and cleaned the dust from his silat wounds, she would seat him beside the kitchen hearth, pull him close, and tell him tales — not fairy tales, but warisan Minangkabau:
The story of Bundo Kanduang, the wise matriarch of Minang legend who ruled not with force, but with fairness.
The tale of Malin Kundang, and how ambition without humility breaks the very mother who raised you.
The proverbs of adat basandi syarak, syarak basandi Kitabullah — that custom must be rooted in sharia, and sharia rooted in the Qur'an.
"Do you know why we Minang follow the mother's line, Nak?" she asked once, brushing his hair.
Rakha shook his head.
"Because a mother holds the house together. If she breaks… everything falls. So men lead outside — but inside," she tapped his chest, "a real man listens. A real man feels."
She taught him emotional language just as carefully as she taught prayer:
"Say what you feel, but with niat baik."
"If you hurt someone with your words, you haven't won."
"You don't have to be right all the time. Just kind."
When Rakha got frustrated with something — like failing to fix a broken radio or losing his footing in silat — she never coddled him.
She just listened.And then asked, "Why does that feeling visit you?"
At first, he didn't understand.
But slowly, he began naming his feelings: disappointment, shame, pride, gratitude. And through that, he learned to understand others' feelings too.
She also taught him languages. Not just because he was quick — but because words were tools of diplomacy.
She spoke fluent Minang and Bahasa Indonesia, and she began planting small seeds:
"French is the language of diplomacy, sayang."
"Arabic is the root of our Qur'an — know it by heart."
"English? That's the window to the world."
"And don't forget Javanese. One day, you'll need it to lead where we never have."
They started with simple phrases. Labels on pots. Names of animals. Dua harimau, deux tigres, two tigers. Rakha soaked it up like rain on dry soil.
In time, the village began whispering again — but not with fear. With awe.
"Anak itu punya dua guru," said Mak Uni one evening. "Satu ajar bertarung. Satu ajar memaafkan."(That boy has two teachers. One teaches him to fight. The other, to forgive.)
[SYSTEM NOTICE]
Emotional Intelligence Milestone Achieved
Trait Unlocked: Empathic Processing I– Improves negotiation, active listening, and conflict management
Language Aptitude Tree Activated– Accelerated acquisition: Bahasa, Minang, English, Arabic (Passive +1/week)
Hidden Stat Buff: "Cultural Fluidity +2"
Blueprint Threshold Nearing…
Faith, ambition, and identity.
One night, after helping his father clean the blades and water the lemongrass, Rakha sat on the woven mat outside their house. The moon was bright, and the stars hung thick over the fields.
His father joined him. Quiet at first. Then, he asked:
"Why do you push yourself like this?"
Rakha looked down at his calloused palms.
"Because if I don't… no one else will fix it."
"Fix what?"
"This country."
Iskandar blinked.
Rakha didn't say it with arrogance. He said it like a fact. Like someone remembering a duty, not chasing a dream.
His father didn't laugh. Didn't scold him for dreaming too big.
Instead, he said "Then listen well, Son. We Minang people… we don't kneel easily. We carry our pride with silence and serve with our backs straight. But if you want to lead — don't just be clever. Be clean. Be civilized."
"Remember this: Wealth makes you respected. Power makes you feared. But only character makes you followed."
It began with the clouds.
Thick, black ones. Swollen with anger. By mid-afternoon, they rolled over the valley like smoke, casting shadows across the sugarcane fields. The air turned wet and heavy. Birds scattered. Chickens huddled under carts. Even the buffalo refused to move.
By dusk, it hit — a torrential downpour unlike anything Lawang had seen in years.
🌧️ The Test
The village flooded fast.
Water overflowed from the rice paddies and spilled into homes. Banana leaves shredded under the wind. Mudpaths vanished beneath rushing brown currents. One of the footbridges collapsed, and a herd of goats got swept downriver.
People screamed. Ran. Prayed.
And in the chaos, Rakha stood at the edge of the main path, drenched but calm — eyes locked on the hills above.
"The overflow's heading toward the lower housing!" he shouted.
Men hesitated. They were used to instincts, not orders from a child.
"I marked it! Look at the map on the board! We need to block the south lane and dig a temporary trench!"
Still they paused — until Ustaz Mahmud stepped beside him, soaked and breathless.
"He's right! I've seen his sketches. He predicted this!"
That broke the doubt.
Within minutes, villagers were hauling logs, sacks of rice husk, even mattresses to dam the southern bend. Rakha led the teams, voice steady but urgent, directing where to pile stones and how deep to dig. He ran barefoot through thick mud, face streaked with water and clay, never stopping.
He didn't just think.He moved people.
By midnight, the rain slowed. By dawn, it stopped.
The lower village was wet — but not destroyed. Crops were damaged, but lives were spared. No one died. Even the goats were found clinging to tree roots downstream.
The people of Lawang stood around the makeshift barrier, now calm.
And they looked not at the rain…
…but at the boy who stopped the worst of it.
"That map saved us," whispered Pak Ahmad."No," said Mak Uni, shaking her head. "That boy did."
[SYSTEM NOTICE]
🏆 Milestone Unlocked: "Crisis Leadership — Proven Under Fire"
🔓 You have demonstrated tactical awareness, civic coordination, and social trust under disaster conditions.
🎁 Blueprint Reward Unlocked
📜 Blueprint Acquired: "Grassroots Systems Engineering – Tier I"Inspired by: [1970s IRRI Flood Mitigation Models + Early Civil Engineering Principles]
🎯 Passive Skill Gained: Local Systems Planner I– Enhances ability to design scalable village infrastructure (irrigation, logistics, shelters)– +2 Community Coordination | +1 Long-Term Planning
🧩 New Feature Unlocked: Design Module (Prototypes & Models)You may now access and simulate future tools and systems based on contextual resources.
That morning, Siti Halimah stood at the edge of the field with her husband, Halim. They didn't speak much. Just watched their son sketch a revised floodway plan in the mud with a stick, surrounded by teens and uncles listening intently.
A child.
And yet…
"He's no longer just ours, is he?" she whispered.
Halim nodded, his eyes tired but proud.
"No. He belongs to this land now."