Help bring Palliative Care to Indonesia's children

Every morning, millions of us drink coffee without ever wondering where it comes from. We crave the warmth, the energy, the routine. But what if I told you that behind that cup of bitter brew in your hand might be the tiny hands of a little boy who once climbed mountains before the sun rose?

His name is Rizal, dancing barefoot in the fields and laughing louder than the river that runs through his village.

By the time he was three, Rizal could walk 2 kilometers up steep hills to help pick coffee cherries. He’d follow his mom and neighbors into the plantation, his tiny legs scrambling over rocks, his fingers stained red by ripe fruit. It wasn’t a game, it was life. His family didn’t have much, but he was strong, happy, talkative, the leader of the pack (“ketua gang”) of his “village” (kampung), leading his friends to play near the river, often getting scolded by the elders of the village for being too wild and too free. The kind of freedom only childhood gives.

But that was before.

Before the swelling appeared near his right cheek. Before the fever that wouldn’t go away. Before the misdiagnosis: “mumps, ear infection, a simple flu”, they said. Then came the headaches, the blurry eyes, and then one terrifying day—he stopped seeing completely. 

By the time they found the real answer, it was too late: rhabdomyosarcoma, a rare and aggressive cancer of the muscle. The tumor was already growing rapidly, pushing on his eyes, pressing on his voice box.

Within a few short weeks from the diagnosis, Rizal was in and out of consciousness. He could no longer talk. No longer walk nor sit up. A feeding tube was placed through his mouth. Radiation burned through the mass, but it couldn’t stop the bleeding in his brain. The cancer took his sight, his voice, and nearly his breath. At one point, he stopped breathing entirely.

And yet, he’s still here. Still fighting.

He opens his eyes now. He moves a little—lifts his arms, stretches his feet, like he remembers how it felt to run down the mountain. Sometimes, in moments of quiet, his mom swears he’s trying to smile.

His parents—both no longer working—stay by his side every day. Their savings are gone. The future uncertain. His older siblings are scattered—one working at a warung, another living with their grandmother. But no matter how far they are, the family holds onto one hope: that Rizal feels no more pain.

With help from Rachel House, he receives home-based palliative care—support for comfort, for dignity. Rachel House helps with diapers, underpads, and the little things that make a big difference. But none can undo what cancer has taken.

So what can we do?

Maybe... we can remember him. Next time you sip your morning coffee, think of Rizal, a child who once walked miles to help his family harvest the beans that end up in the city cafés. A boy who loved to sing and dance, who was so full of life, it spilled into everyone around him.

Think of his hands. His smile. His story.

And maybe, just maybe, let it change the way we see the world.

Because behind every cup, there’s a story.
And sometimes, it’s a story that breaks your heart…
But also reminds you how precious, how beautiful, how fragile life really is.

Dedicated to Rizal. You may not be able to run again, but your courage runs through us.