THE SKY ABOVE THE RUMBIA SCHOOL - Suara Anak Negeri News

A Short Story by
LENI MARLINA
(UNP Padang, SatuPena-Sumbar, KEAI, PLS, ASM, E4LC, Littalk-C)

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The morning mist still clung above the swamp when Surya—the sun that often came late to this village—finally showed its face through the haze. Beneath its tender light stood the rumbia schoolhouse, leaning slightly, like an old man too weary to hold up the world. Its walls were woven from bamboo, full of holes left by termites. The blackboard was no longer black, but a weary greenish gray—like the face of the sky restraining its rain.

That was where Bu Rara taught.

Every morning, the woman in a faded veil walked through the fog from the edge of the forest, carrying a cloth bag filled with chalk and three worn-out books. Sometimes she had to wade through muddy puddles that swallowed her calves; sometimes she crossed a small river on a fallen coconut trunk serving as a bridge. But her steps never faltered. On her shoulders she carried not only that bag—but also the future of the children who waited for her each day with eyes full of hope.

The children came barefoot, wearing torn uniforms and hair coated in coal dust. Since the coal mine had opened in the hills behind the village, the air had grown heavy and hot—like the breath of an angry giant. The river had changed color: no longer clear, but blackish, like ink spilled from the belly of the earth. Once, the children could catch fish with small nets; now the fish existed only in their memories—memories they redrew each day on the blackboard.

“Children,” said Bu Rara one morning, her voice hoarse yet gentle, “write this in your books: Water is life—but it can also be sorrow.”

A boy named Seno raised his hand, as honest and simple as the clay beneath their feet.
“Bu, why can water be sad?”

Bu Rara smiled, glancing out the window where the dark current of the river turned slowly like old blood. “Because water also has a heart,” she said softly. “When it’s forced to swallow poison from the mines, it weeps too. But its tears make no sound.”

Seno nodded, staring long at the river outside, as if trying to listen to the cry his teacher meant.

Then came the news that the school would be closed—and the village seemed to lose its breath.

Officials arrived, carrying a letter with thick stamps. They said the rumbia school was “inefficient.” Only seven students remained, and it was too far from the district center. It would be better, they said, if the children were transferred to a new school built by the mining company—a school with concrete walls and shiny tin roofs, not far from the mine’s main gate.

“Look, Bu Rara,” said the village head, patting her shoulder with a forced smile. “The company wants to help. They care about education. Isn’t that good news?”

But in Bu Rara’s heart, something cracked. “Sir, this school isn’t just a building. It’s the only place where the children learn to love their own land. If they study there—under the mine’s banner—what will they learn? How to dig the earth, not how to plant it.”

The village head laughed briefly, bitterly. “Ah, Bu Rara. The world changes. Don’t fight the current. Ideals alone can’t feed a life.”

But Bu Rara knew: idealism was not a luxury. It was breath itself—for those who lived at the margins, the last breath before everything sank into the mud of money and coal dust.

That night, the rain poured hard. The rumbia roof wept with her, dripping water like tears, while the wind shook the bamboo walls like a prayer left unsaid. Bu Rara sat before the blackboard, gazing at the sentence Seno had written earlier that day: Water can be sad, too.

The words trembled under the wind and faded slightly in the damp. She closed her eyes. In her mind she saw the faces of her children—Seno, Lila, Riko, and the four others. Children who ran to school each morning carrying hopes heavier than the books in their hands.

A flash of lightning split the sky. Its scream tore through the silence like the earth’s own cry.

Bu Rara stepped outside the hut, looking toward the mine glittering with floodlights. Orange trucks rumbled by, hauling the black chunks they called “black gold.” But to her, those stones were shining wounds.

She walked to the riverbank and knelt. The water was black, smelling of oil. “Look, Mother Earth,” she whispered, “they call this progress. But why does every step forward feel like stepping on our own chest?”

The wind answered faintly, rustling the leaves by the river. In its whisper she seemed to hear a voice: “Teach them to love again—before it’s too late.”

The next day, Bu Rara brought the children to the hill behind the school. They planted mahogany saplings in the cracked soil.

“Why should we plant them, Bu, if they’ll dig it up again later?” asked Lila, her eyes clear but weary.

“Because the earth must know we still care,” Bu Rara replied. “If no one plants, who will embrace the earth when it cries?”

The children bowed and dug the soil with their small hands. Mud clung to their nails and palms, but their faces shone like sunlight breaking through the mist.

That day, the wounded earth received a small embrace—from seven human children.

Days later, two government cars and one company vehicle arrived. They carried an official letter: the rumbia school was to be closed. The children would be moved to the new “modern” school.

Bu Rara stood before the gate, wearing a faded batik blouse. “I will not sign that paper,” she said firmly.

“Please, Ma’am,” said the official, “this is an order. Besides, the new school has air conditioning, computers, full facilities.”

“Facilities cannot replace belonging,” she said. “This school belongs to the village. Over there, you’ll raise children who can read letters—but are blind to their own land.”

One of the company men smirked. “Nice words, Ma’am. But times have changed. Land that isn’t mined is wasted land.”

Bu Rara looked at him long and said quietly, “Land that’s mined too much can no longer bear life—just like the human heart.”

Silence fell. Even the wind paused, as if holding its breath.

At last, the cars drove away, leaving dust hanging in the air. But among that dust, something else stirred: a small fire in the villagers’ chests. They began returning, asking questions, bringing their children back to the school—without waiting for anyone’s permission.

From that day on, the rumbia school lived again—not by command, but by love.

Yet the victory didn’t last. Two weeks later, heavy rain made the walls collapse. The roof caved in, the blackboard shattered, and books were swept into the ditches.

The children wept, but Bu Rara stood calmly among the ruins. “Don’t cry, children. The school isn’t these walls. The school is us—as long as we’re willing to learn, it can be anywhere.”

So they studied beneath a big tree on the hillside. Bu Rara wrote on the ground with a twig. Rain fell, but no one left.

Seno looked up at the dark sky. “Bu, why did God let our school fall?”
“So that we understand,” she smiled, “that true knowledge isn’t for shelter—but for survival.”

Years later, the mining company’s school stood grand—and empty. The rumbia school had vanished, replaced by piles of stone and dust. But every afternoon, on the bare hill, people often saw a group of children writing on the earth with twigs. Each letter they drew looked like a root trying to pierce through stone.

Some said Bu Rara was gone—transferred to the city, or buried by a landslide behind the mine. But among the villagers, one belief remained unbroken: as long as the children still dare to write, Bu Rara’s spirit has not left.

For the knowledge she planted was not in the head—but in the heart. And that heart grew into a tree that could never be cut down.

One evening, under a crimson sky, a little child pointed to the clouds above the hill. “Look—that’s Bu Rara,” he said. “She’s smiling in the sky.”

The others looked too. Above the black, smoky land where the mine once roared, the sky glowed with a soft orange hue—like the face of a mother bending down with love.

And beneath that sky, a child wrote in the soil with a broken twig: Our school may have fallen, but Bu Rara’s lessons still stand.

The wind came gently, blowing the letters away—toward the forest, the river, the world.

Perhaps that wind was nature’s way of whispering: that the struggle is not over, and true education is always born from hearts that refuse to surrender.

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Note:
Rumbia refers to the sago palm tree (Metroxylon sagu), a tropical plant commonly found in Indonesia and other parts of Southeast Asia. Its leaves are traditionally used as roofing material for village houses and huts, including rural school buildings. A “rumbia school” therefore refers to a simple, humble schoolhouse roofed with rumbia leaves—symbolizing modesty, resilience, and the enduring spirit of education in remote communities. (LM 2025)

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About the Author:

Leni Marlina is a writer, poet, and lecturer at Universitas Negeri Padang, West Sumatra, Indonesia, where she has been teaching since 2006. She is the Founder and Head of several digital social communities in the fields of literacy, literature, translation, and creative entrepreneurship, including the Pondok Puisi Inspirasi Pemikiran Masyarakat Indonesia (PPIPM-Indonesia), Poetry-Pen International Community (PPIC), Translation Practice Community (Trans-PC), English Language, Literature and Literacy Community (E4LC), and World Children’s Literature Community (WCLC), among others.
Leni is also an active member of the ACC Shanghai Huifeng International Literary Association (ACC SHILA), the Indonesian Writers Association (SatuPena – West Sumatra), Penyala Literasi Sumbar (PLS), and the World Poetry Movement (WPM) Indonesia.