In a small village wrapped by the emerald arms of the mountain, the morning mist would glide like a soft prayer over the trees. The river sang gently, and three friends sat by its edge Boy, Paul, and Mamat, watching the reflection of sunlight dance on the water. To them, the forest was not just a stretch of land. It was memory, breath, and life itself.
But life was changing.
The old trees were falling. The songs of birds had quieted. The forest, once alive and unbroken, was slowly fading into silence.
"Our forest is dying," Boy said, his voice heavy.
Boy was the dreamer, the one who believed the forest could be saved through conviction alone. "Protecting it is our duty," he often said. "If not us, then who?"
Paul, calm and thoughtful, nodded. "We need action. Awareness. Education. Let's start a movement, teach people, involve the youth, plant trees."
Mamat, who had been quietly tossing stones into the river, finally spoke. "You're both right," he said with a small smile, "but you're missing something."
He pointed toward the distant village. "People cut trees not because they hate the forest. They do it because they're hungry. You can't tell a man to love trees when his children haven't eaten. If the forest doesn't feed them, they'll tear it down to survive."
Paul frowned. "So what's your plan?"
Mamat leaned forward, his eyes steady. "We make the forest feed them again. We turn protection into livelihood. Let's grow coffee, harvest honey, sell bamboo, create forest-based crafts even eco tours. If people can live with the forest, they'll never destroy it."
Boy was silent for a long time. The wind rustled the leaves above them as if agreeing with Mamat's words.