Help bring Palliative Care to Indonesia's children

This Christmas, as we gather in festive celebration and in the warm embrace of our family and loved ones, we are reminded that there are families whose world is much smaller and fragile—but no less filled with love. Arman’s* story reminds us that the true spirit of Christmas lives not in material abundance, but in compassionate care and hope, shared with those who need it most.

In one modest room in the urban jungle of Jakarta, the capital city of Indonesia, a grandmother’s love devotion is keeping her grandson’s world alive. And, with Rachel House nurses’ dedicated care and support, the grandmother's love continues to shine bright through even the hardest circumstances.

Arman’s world unfolds quietly every morning. He lies in his bed, fragile and still, his body is sustained by liquid food that is passed through a nasogastric tube, and his spirit by his grandmother's love. Outside his little shelter, life moves on without notice; but inside, his grandmother builds a world just for him—a world of loving care and gentle patience that stretches far beyond the walls of their tiny space.

Since his mother passed away, grandma has been everything to Arman: his protector, his friend, and his place of comfort. Every morning, she carefully adjusts his blanket, checks his feeding tube, and whispers magical stories into his ear. She hums softly as she brushes back the thin strands of hair on his forehead, speaking to him about the little joys in life—the songs of birds outside, the scent of freshly food cooked by the street vendor, the laughter of neighbors that she builds into their  stories. The room is small, yet she has filled it with life.

At one corner of the wall, a photo of Arman as a smiling baby cradled in the arms of his mother, reminds us of happier times. A little table in the room holds the supplies they need. In this protected surroundings, grandma makes sure that Arman experiences the world in his own way. She plays gentle music, tells stories, and laughs with him in moments only they can share. Every day, she searches for ways to give him happiness, to let him feel he is living fully, despite his illness.

Even though they only have each other, they are not alone. Rachel House’s nurses and community health workers visit them regularly, checking in on Arman's physical condition, helping guide grandma on the care needed by Arman; and sometimes, just simply being there to offer her encouragement and being a listening ear. These visits bring knowledge, as well as companionship - reminding grandma that there are people who care about Arman and that she is not alone.

Although life is a constant challenge, grandma never allows it to rob them of joy. She laughs with Arman when he responds to her stories, hums when he rests, and quietly celebrates every tiny moment of comfort or joy. Her love is relentless, her dedication total. “I will do anything for him,” she says softly, as though speaking to the room itself. And in that room, it is true—she does.

But their life together is fragile. Every day, they rely on support from people who understand the weight of their struggle. Donations Rachel House receives helps ensure Arman receives the special nutrition and medical supplies he needs, and the visits from our palliative care trained nurses to help grandma care for him safely Every contribution allows grandma to keep the world around Arman safe, filled with love, comfort, and dignity.

In this single room, with limited means and a life defined by illness, Arman’s life is enveloped in love. Full of stories, laughter, and devoted love that refuses to give up. With your support, we are able to help Arman continue  to experience life to its fullest, surrounded by the unwavering devotion of his grandmother and the care of Rachel House nurses and community health workers.

Join us in bringing hope, comfort and joy to Arman and other children like him. Your support changes lives—one gentle touch, one smile, one day at a time.

*name changed for privacy

In this story, we honour the hopes and dreams of each and every one of our patients. We recognise that even as their body wilts, the song of their soul continue to hum. And for all of us at Rachel House, this is the song that we try to hear, no matter how faint; and to hum along even when hope dims. 

In the city of Palembang in South Sumatra - Indonesia, a city with a population close to 2 million, people did not just know the name Abi*. They recognize him.

He is known by many names: a prodigy in pencak silat (Indonesian martial art), the boy with the sharp reflexes, he with the focused stare. The one who was always the first on the silat mat and the last to leave. At just 16, Abi was dominating the sport. The kind of student whose body moved before his brain had to think. Competition organizers started to remember his name. There was even a quiet talk about a future with the national team.

He lived at the athlete's dorm, where mornings started with sweat on concrete and ended with sore muscles and shared laughter. Every bruise was a badge. Every ache was earned. His world was discipline, routine, and on fire.

But that life stopped. Abruptly.

It started with a swollen knee. An injury, maybe. Overuse. He pushed through the pain. Fighters always do. But the swelling didn’t go away. The pain grew more intense and more persistent. Then came the hospital visits. Then the scans. Then the diagnosis.

Papillary Renal Cell Carcinoma.
Kidney cancer. Rare. Aggressive.

The main mass was in his right kidney, but it had already spread. Another mass had formed on his left pelvis, cutting off circulation in both legs. His limbs began to swell. The pain became unbearable. Abi, who once sparred for hours, now needs morphine just to sleep through the night.

He was pulled off the mat. Out of school. Out of his dorm. Out from his entire world.

Abi and his parents left Palembang behind and moved to Jakarta - the capital city, in search of hope. Their new life became a small rented room near the hospital. After a few weeks, his father had to return home to work and send money. His mother stays, caring for him day and night. She rarely rests. The exhaustion shows, though she tries to hide it.

Now, the sixteen-year-old Abi lies in bed. His pelvis marked by a noticeable swelling. Aches and pain are his constant companions.

The silence is unfamiliar. There's no rhythm of training. No teammates shouting in the background. Just the beeping of the machines, the rustle of hospital sheets, and his mother’s faithful hands smoothing back his hair.

But Abi still believes he’ll get up again.
He tells visitors he’s just "resting for now."
He says he’ll go back to silat soon.
He still dreams of competitions, of medals, of returning to the mat.

The oncologists, gently but firmly, have told his family the truth.
The damage is permanent.
The cancer is advanced.
He won’t return to the life he had.

But Abi isn’t ready to hear that.
Not yet.
He holds onto hope like an invisible rope in the dark ravine. His belief is unshaken. Maybe he’s fighting the only way he knows how — by refusing to surrender.

And maybe that’s why the loss hits even harder.

Because this isn’t just about illness.
It’s about identity.
The boy who once moved like the wind now lies still, willing himself to rise again.
But the silence around him speaks of a different future. One he can’t accept. Not yet.

He misses home. Misses his siblings — he is the second of four. He misses the taste of food cooked by his grandmother at home. His appetite is still strong, a quiet sign of life refusing to dim. But his parents, especially his mother, keep his diet strict, afraid that the wrong diet may make things worse.

Jakarta doesn’t know Abi the way Palembang knew him. Here, he’s just “the cancer kid from out of town.” Another patient file. Another fading dream.

But here’s what they don’t see:

Abi still watches silat videos on his phone. The old ones, where his body moved like it had wings. He studies each strike, each stance, each breath. His body may have changed, but his identity hasn’t vanished. It’s waiting. Quietly. Stubbornly.

He doesn’t speak much about the grief of letting go. But it fills the room. Thick. Heavy.
Denial is its own kind of pain.

And yet, through it all — he still believes.

“Silat isn’t just what I do,” Abi says, eyes unwavering. “It’s who I am. Even if I never fight again… it’s still in me. Always.”

No, he may never return to the mat.
But the spirit of the fighter — the one who trained at sunrise, who moved like the wind, who never gave up — still burns inside him.

This isn’t the ending.
It’s a pause.
A reckoning.
A new kind of fight.

*Name changed for privacy