A story about carrying on an intergenerational struggle for justice and planetary health by Jhonatan Yuditya Pratama, 25 yr, West Kalimantan, Indonesia.
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Jhonatan is a passionate Advocate for Healthcare, Nature Conservation, and Community Empowerment. He is the driving force behind the Patamuan Talino Foundation and serves as the leader of the Dayak youth, where his focus is on preserving indigenous culture and delivering essential services to the community.
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In the heart of the Borneo island – our Dayak community, we live by a simple yet profound truth: "The forest is our father, the land is our mother, and the river is our blood." These words are not just a saying - they are a way of life, a bond with nature that has shaped who we are for generations. But this connection is being severed. My earliest memories are of a forest alive with the calls of hornbills and the gentle hum of the river. Yet, even as a child, I saw the changes creeping in. The forest, once our protector, was falling to the roar of chainsaws. The river, once clear and full of life, grew murky with pollution. The land that held our stories was being carved away, leaving scars where there once was life. In 2018, I joined others in creating Patamuan Talino - a name that means “The Meeting of Humanity.” It represents a collective space where we come together as a community to imagine a brighter future, to dream of hope, and to fight for our rights. Through this effort, we blend the wisdom of our elders with the strength of our youth, standing united in our determination to protect what’s left and restore what we can. Our work is rooted in action and connection. We organize workshops to teach sustainable practices, bring community members together to plant trees, and speak out against policies that harm our land. We’ve created spaces for young people to learn about their heritage, to hear the stories of the forest, and to understand why this fight matters. It’s not just about survival - it’s about holding onto who we are. My inspiration comes from my father. He was a quiet hero, traveling tirelessly to provide medical care to those in need, even during the choking smoke of forest fires. He passed away in July last year, just days after returning from his last visit to a remote village. His compassion and unwavering service taught me that hope isn’t just about wishing for change - it’s about creating it. As I look to the future, I hold onto the dream that our forest will once again be alive with the calls of hornbills, that our rivers will run clear, and that our children will grow up with the same connection to the land that shaped me. Through Patamuan Talino, we are weaving a path forward together - a meeting of humanity, grounded in hope and action.
3 yr: I was born in 1999, into a world where the forest, the land, and the river were everything to us. They were not just things we lived with; they were part of our identity. My first memories are of the sounds of the jungle - the rustling leaves, the chirping birds, and the flow of the river. Even then, I felt something deep inside me: this place was sacred. But, even as a child, I noticed that something was wrong. The forest that had always been there, the place we called home, was starting to disappear. I didn’t fully understand it, but I could feel it. The anxiety came in waves - an unspoken fear that something precious was being lost forever.
8 yr: By the time I was eight, the signs of destruction were undeniable. I watched as the palm oil plantations spread across the land, replacing our forests. The land that had been a source of life for generations was now being sold off, piece by piece. I didn’t know why this was happening, but it hurt. I started to feel a deep sense of injustice - a growing anger in my heart. Why weren’t people doing something? Why weren’t we being heard? I didn’t have the words to express my frustration, but I felt it in every part of my being. 12y At twelve, the world around me seemed to be changing faster than I could keep up. I saw entire forests being cut down, rivers drying up, and wildlife disappearing. My father, a pillar of our community, would always tell me, “The forest is our father, the land is our mother, and the river is our blood.” Those words stuck with me, even as I felt the weight of what was happening. I could see the pain in my father’s eyes every time he spoke about the destruction of our land. I could feel it, too -anxiety, helplessness, sadness. It was as if the land was grieving, and so was I.
16 yr: By sixteen, I had become more aware of the climate crisis and how it was affecting our people. The anxiety I felt was no longer just about what was happening to the land - it was also about what it meant for us. Our community, our culture, and our future were all tied to the forest. And watching it slip away felt like I was losing a part of myself. But my father was a man of action. He didn’t just talk about the injustice; he did something about it. His work as a general practitioner - a healer, especially during the forest fires, inspired me to take action too. I realised then that we could not just sit and wait for someone else to fix things. We had to stand up for what was ours, for what we believed in.
18 yr: I founded Patamuan Talino. The name Patamuan Talino means The Meeting of Humanity - a place where people come together to make a difference. It wasn’t just about protecting the land; it was about giving the youth a platform to stand up, to speak out, and to fight for the future. It was my way of honouring my father’s legacy - a legacy of service and standing up for the community. The founding of Patamuan Talino felt like the beginning of something bigger than myself. It was a way for me to channel my frustration, my anxiety, and my grief into action.
23 yr: The loss I felt wasn’t just the loss of the land, but the loss of my father. In July 2023, he passed away, just three days after visiting our community. He had spent his life helping others, even in the most challenging of times. He was always there, always steady, always fighting for justice. Losing him felt like the ground beneath me was gone. I thought about all the years he spent working to protect our people and the land, and I felt the weight of the responsibility he had passed on to me. It was as if his passing was the final push I needed to continue his fight - our fight - for the land and the people.
25 yr: Now, at twenty-five, the anxiety that once consumed me is no longer a source of fear; it is a call to action. My father’s death changed something in me. It made me realise that the fight we’re in is bigger than all of us, and we cannot afford to give up. I lead Patamuan Talino not just because it’s my passion, but because it’s my duty. I do it for the forests, the rivers, the land, and the future of our people. But most of all, I do it for my father. His spirit lives on in everything we do. He showed me that we cannot let our hearts break without doing something about it. We must act. And through Patamuan Talino, I am not just continuing his work - I am building something new, something that will carry his legacy forward. The loss of my father, combined with the grief I felt for the land, only fuels my determination to make sure we are heard. I see his lessons in everything I do - his commitment to the community, his unwavering belief that we must protect what is ours. The fight continues, not just for the forest, but for our people, for the land, for the future. My father’s passing was the hardest thing I’ve ever faced, but it has also been my greatest motivation. The journey is long, but we will keep moving forward, step by step, carrying the torch he left behind.
