MA in Publishing
MA in Publishing
‘Do you wanna hear a story?’
That question has stayed with me ever since I first discovered this “place”. An old sky-blue Volkswagen Kombi, painted with books forming a bridge that led children towards a rainbow, stood there. Its worn exterior was not a sign of neglect but proof of its owner’s unwavering spirit in bringing joy to children who spent their days begging from passersby.
‘Who wants to hear a story? Come here.’ Abah, that was how everyone knew him.
‘Can adults read here, Bah?’ asked a poorly dressed woman carrying a sack of cardboard.
‘Sure. Everyone is welcome here,’ Abah replied with his warm smile.
***
Every afternoon at four, Abah would spread a yellow mat beside his Volkswagen and begin telling stories. Children’s laughter and endless questions were always met with patience and kindness. Around them, adults and children alike explored the adventures hidden inside what we fondly called the Dream Car.
‘I hope this becomes the vehicle that carries everyone who reads here toward their dreams,’ he once told me as we sat by the park walkway. ‘Dreams belong to everyone. Including you.’ Those were the last words he said while gently patting my head.
***
‘Abah is gone but his footsteps remain here. In every child’s dream. In the memories of those who kept returning for new adventures,’ I said to Teguh, the person I trusted to care for Abah’s Dream Car before I left for Manchester to pursue my medical specialisation.
‘You really trust me?’ he asked.
‘If Pak Sugeng could entrust his greatest dream to people he believed in after he was gone, including Abah, then I can trust you too.’ I smiled.
This year marks sixty years since the Volkswagen first rolled through Cikini and thirty years since it introduced me to Abah and gave me my very first dream.
The Dream Car arrived at a park, greeted by children’s cheerful laughter. Teguh and I quickly prepared it so everyone could browse the books comfortably.
Before I could speak, a child raised a hand. ‘What exciting book should I read today?’
Smilling, I handed over The Dot.
‘Can I read it by myself?’ he asked.
I nodded.
‘If I don’t understand something, can I ask you?’
‘Of course,’ I replied.
The child settled onto a small brown chair and began reading. I watched the lively scene around me with quiet happiness.
A while later the child returned.
‘A dream,’ he said.
Confused, I looked closer.
‘I wanna have a dream.’
Those words carried me back decades.
***
The bookshelf is still there. It has moved from place to place but still holds the same books, waiting for someone to open them. Children still come, asking for new stories, and another first word is spoken.
Jakarta taught me that community is more than just a place to gather. It is where a single step can grow into hope.
And Jakarta has always welcomed that hope with warmth.