The House That Disappeared in the Rain

When I was six, I learned that a house could disappear overnight.

In Malang, rain wasn’t just water falling from the sky. Sometimes it was gentle, cooling the air and making everything smell fresh. Other times, it was a monster.

Our house was small, near the Brantas River. Every year, when the rains came, the water crept closer. My parents watched but never seemed too worried. "We've seen worse," my father would say.

Then came the night that proved him wrong.

The rain had started that afternoon, heavier than usual. By evening, the air smelled thick with damp earth, and the sky was a deep, unbroken gray. I sat on the floor playing with my toys, pretending not to notice how often my parents glanced outside.

When I went to bed, the world felt different—tense, waiting. I stared at the ceiling, listening to the wind rattle the windows and the rain pounding against the roof. Eventually, sleep pulled me under.

Until my mother shook me awake.

“The water is coming,” she whispered.

Her voice was steady, but I could feel the tension in her fingers as she gripped my shoulders. I sat up, blinking in the dim light. The room looked the same, but I could hear something new—water moving, rushing, too close.

We stepped outside, and my feet splashed into cold water. I gasped. It had already reached our doorstep.

People were in the streets, wading through the flood, some carrying sacks of belongings, others yelling names, searching for family. The river had escaped, raging like a wild beast.

Then, before my eyes, my home was swallowed whole.

It didn’t collapse in pieces. It didn’t shatter. It simply vanished. One moment, it was there—a place filled with my father’s books, my mother’s laughter, my childhood toys. The next, it was nothing but rushing, churning darkness.

I didn’t cry. I couldn’t. I just stood there, holding my mother’s hand, trying to understand how something so solid, so familiar, could disappear as if it had never existed.

The Long Night

We ran. My father carried me on his back, my mother clutching his arm as the water chased us down the street. We weren’t the only ones—dozens of families were fleeing, moving toward higher ground.

That night, we stayed in a school. The floor was cold, the air thick with mud and fear. Volunteers gave us food, but no one was hungry.

I watched my mother sit against the wall, staring at nothing. My father wiped his face with his sleeve, his shoulders rising and falling with deep, exhausted breaths. They didn’t say anything to each other.

I didn’t sleep. I listened to the rain, waiting for it to stop, waiting for someone to tell us this was all a mistake.

But morning came, and nothing had changed.

Displaced but Not Defeated

The next few days were a blur—moving shelters, searching for help. I held my mother’s hand, afraid to let go.

People spoke of government aid, of rebuilding efforts. Some blamed bad infrastructure. Others said it was nature’s way of reminding us who was in control. I didn’t care about any of that.

All I knew was that my home was gone.

The Weight of What Was Lost

A few days after the flood, when the water receded, my father took me back to where our house had been. At first, I thought we were in the wrong place. The ground looked different—mud-covered, unfamiliar. There was no foundation, no broken furniture left behind. It was as if our house had never existed.

I kicked at the mud, hoping to find something—maybe my toy car, maybe a piece of my mother’s favorite chair. But there was nothing.

“How can a whole house just disappear?” I asked my mother later that evening.

She didn’t answer right away. Finally, she said, “Houses can disappear, but people don’t.”

I didn’t understand then. I just knew that I felt small, unanchored, as if the flood had washed away more than just our home. It had taken away the feeling of being safe.

Starting Over

We didn’t have many options. The government offered temporary housing, but my parents didn’t want to wait. They found a small rented house far from the river. It wasn’t home—not yet. The air smelled different. The walls were bare. At night, I listened for the familiar creaks of our old floorboards, but there were none.

My mother tried to make the place feel like ours. She hung up our old calendar, even though the pages were still damp. She placed a single potted plant by the door, saying we should always have something growing.

The neighbors—people we had never met—came by with food and blankets. My father, who had barely spoken in days, finally managed a small smile as he shook their hands.

Slowly, life resumed. But I had changed.

Every time dark clouds gathered, my chest tightened. At night, I dreamed of water swallowing our home again.

One evening, as rain poured outside, I curled up in my mother’s arms. “What if the water comes back?” I whispered.

She kissed my forehead. “Then we’ll move again. We’ll always find a way.”

Her words should have reassured me, but they didn’t. Instead, they made me realise something—there were no guarantees.

A Lesson in Resilience

Years later, I still think about that night—not just as a childhood memory, but as a lesson I carry with me.

For a long time, I believed that losing a home meant losing everything. But I’ve learned that home isn’t just walls and a roof. It’s the people who hold your hand when the flood comes. It’s the kindness of strangers who bring you food and blankets. It’s the quiet strength of parents who, even in the face of uncertainty, tell their child, “We’ll always find a way.”

I used to fear the rain. Even now, when thunder rumbles, something inside me tightens. But I know fear never stops the storm—it only stops you from moving forward.

And I’ve seen this story repeat, not just in my life, but in the lives of so many others. Every year, floods displace families across Indonesia. News headlines treat it like routine—Another flood in Jakarta. Rising waters in Semarang. Villages submerged in Kalimantan. But behind those words are people, standing in the ruins of their homes, trying to start over.

I recognize the look in their eyes. The exhaustion. The disbelief. The quiet determination. Because I’ve been there. And I know that no matter how much water takes, people always rebuild.

Losing a home taught me something no disaster could wash away: life gives no guarantees, but that doesn’t mean we are powerless. The rain will come. The rivers will rise. But as long as we have each other, as long as we keep moving forward, we will always find a way.