We won't be able to stop disasters from happening. On the

Host: The evening sky over Jakarta was painted in shades of grey and amber, the kind of light that feels both calm and restless — the prelude to either rain or renewal. The air hung heavy with humidity and purpose, as if the city itself was holding its breath between the pulse of progress and the ache of fragility.

From the rooftop of a new sustainability hub overlooking the sprawling city, Jack stood near the glass railing, watching the clouds gather over the bay. The streets below shimmered with life — motorbikes weaving, markets closing, children laughing in alleys already slick with the first promise of rain.

Jeeny joined him, a folder tucked under her arm, her eyes scanning the horizon with quiet focus — the kind of look that belongs to someone who studies storms not out of fear, but out of responsibility.

The distant rumble of thunder rolled through the humid air. She opened the folder, reading softly, her voice steady and resolute — a calm against the gathering wind.

"We won't be able to stop disasters from happening. On the contrary, climate change may increase the frequency and severity of floods, droughts, and storms. But we are better equipped today to prepare for them and reduce their impact." — Sri Mulyani Indrawati

Her words settled like rain on the metal railing — soft, inevitable, true.

Jack exhaled slowly.

Jack: “She’s right. You can’t stop the tide. You can only build the levees taller.”

Jeeny: (nodding) “And smarter. Not everything strong needs to be hard. Sometimes resilience looks like flexibility.”

Jack: “You mean bending before you break.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Like bamboo — it survives typhoons because it knows how to sway.”

Jack: (smirking faintly) “And humans? We prefer to build skyscrapers and then act surprised when the wind reminds us who’s in charge.”

Host: A flash of lightning painted the clouds white for an instant. The first few drops of rain fell, heavy and slow, like punctuation in the sky’s long sentence.

They both stepped back under the canopy, but neither left.

Jeeny: “You know, what I admire about Sri Mulyani is how she talks about preparation — not panic. That’s rare. We keep reacting to disasters instead of designing for them.”

Jack: “We’re creatures of aftermath. We rebuild better, but rarely before.”

Jeeny: “That’s changing. Slowly. Look at this building — solar panels, rainwater harvesting, stormproof architecture. We’re learning to live with nature instead of against it.”

Jack: (leaning on the railing) “You think that’s enough?”

Jeeny: “It’s never enough. But it’s something. You don’t win against nature — you adapt.”

Jack: “Adaptation. That’s just survival with better PR.”

Jeeny: (smiling gently) “No, Jack. Adaptation is humility made practical.”

Host: The rain grew stronger now, but it came steady — rhythmic, forgiving. The city below shimmered in silver streaks, the streets transforming into fleeting rivers of reflection.

The neon lights of storefronts blurred into watercolor, and somewhere far off, a train horn cried softly through the rain — the sound of human persistence threading through the storm.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? We call these disasters — as if they’re exceptions. But storms, floods, droughts... they’ve been here longer than us. Maybe we’re the ones who arrived unprepared.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Disasters only happen when humans forget how to listen to the planet’s rhythm.”

Jack: “And now we’ve turned that rhythm into noise.”

Jeeny: “But we can tune back in. It starts small — communities planting mangroves, cities designing water corridors, farmers learning new cycles. It’s not about control. It’s about coexistence.”

Host: The wind brushed through, cool and alive. For a moment, it carried the scent of the ocean — salt, rain, and something ancient.

Jack looked toward the horizon, where the storm was thickest. His reflection trembled faintly in the glass, a human silhouette dwarfed by the sky.

Jack: “Do you ever think it’s too late?”

Jeeny: “Too late for what?”

Jack: “To fix what we’ve done.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “Maybe. But not too late to change what we’ll do next.”

Jack: “You sound optimistic.”

Jeeny: “I’m not. I’m stubborn. There’s a difference.”

Host: The rain softened again, tapering into drizzle. The city lights blinked awake, reflections dancing on every slick surface — resilient, luminous, alive.

Jack: “You know, I think what she meant — Sri Mulyani — wasn’t just about climate. It’s about mindset. We can’t stop life’s storms either, but maybe we can stop pretending we’re powerless in them.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The future isn’t something to fear. It’s something to prepare for. Fear paralyzes; preparation empowers.”

Jack: “And yet most people only change after they’ve lost something.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the real disaster isn’t the storm — it’s the arrogance that comes before it.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “And the apathy that follows.”

Host: The sound of the rain became a whisper. A child’s laughter echoed faintly from the street below — a boy splashing in a puddle, his reflection rippling like light caught in motion.

Jeeny smiled as she watched him.

Jeeny: “Look at that. The next generation won’t fear the rain. They’ll find ways to dance in it.”

Jack: “And maybe that’s the lesson — we prepare not just to survive, but to let them still play.”

Jeeny: (softly) “That’s the most human thing we can do.”

Host: The last of the storm passed, leaving behind a sky that looked rinsed — clear, pale, almost fragile. The air smelled of wet stone and renewal.

Jack turned to Jeeny, his voice quieter now.

Jack: “You ever notice how storms make the city look new afterward?”

Jeeny: “That’s the Earth’s mercy. It doesn’t just punish; it cleanses.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s what she meant — Sri Mulyani — when she said we can’t stop disasters. Maybe they’re not punishment at all. Maybe they’re reminders.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Reminders that balance doesn’t vanish — it just demands to be restored.”

Host: They stood there for a while, the skyline glistening with aftermath. The clouds drifted apart slowly, revealing a faint moon — pale, patient, ancient.

And as the wind brushed through the rooftop garden, Sri Mulyani Indrawati’s words seemed to linger in the air — steady as the pulse of the world itself:

"We won’t be able to stop disasters from happening… But we are better equipped today to prepare for them and reduce their impact."

Host: Because progress isn’t the absence of storms.
It’s the wisdom to build with the wind,
to plan with humility,
to endure with compassion.

And perhaps the truest measure of civilization
is not how it avoids disaster —
but how it rises together when the waters come.