"Some people are born poor. Raka was born buried."
The ceiling above Raka's head was cracked, peeling with age and neglect. Each morning, sunlight filtered through its broken edges like tiny blades, slicing the dimness of the room into jagged shapes. Raka stared up at it, unmoving, his mind still trapped between sleep and reality—a reality that felt more like punishment than existence.
Outside, Jakarta roared to life. Honking horns, street vendors shouting their morning deals, and the rhythmic tap of rain on the corrugated metal roof formed the soundtrack of another forgotten day. He could hear neighbors arguing next door. Someone's TV was already blaring bad soap operas. But in here, in his one-room home tucked between concrete walls, it was silence that screamed the loudest.
His mother had already gone—probably before sunrise. She always left early to catch the first bus to the textile factory on the edge of the city. In her place was the usual note scribbled on a crumpled scrap of paper next to leftover rice.
"Don't forget to eat. Look for part-time jobs if you can. We're three months behind rent. – Ibu."
Raka read it once. Twice. Then slowly crumpled the paper and shoved it into his backpack like the words could somehow weigh less if he didn't look at them again.
At seventeen, Raka had stopped dreaming. Life wasn't about dreams anymore; it was about surviving the next hour. His father had vanished when Raka was eight, leaving behind nothing but a mountain of debt and vague rumors about gambling and street gangs. His mother, who once sold handmade batik at the market, now stitched factory seams for less than minimum wage. And Raka?
Raka became invisible. A ghost drifting through life with secondhand shoes and a heart full of resentment.
He sat up on the thin foam mattress and pulled his knees to his chest, trying to delay the day. But hunger didn't wait. The rice was cold and hard, the sambal dried into a crust. Still, he ate in silence, staring at a hole in the wall where a rat had once made a nest.
His phone buzzed. The cracked screen lit up with a notification: "Final semester tuition: Overdue."
He exhaled slowly. It was the fourth notice in two weeks.
School had been his only escape. The library was quiet, the computer lab had free Wi-Fi, and sometimes, when no one was looking, Raka would sneak in videos on investing, finance, and cryptocurrency. While his friends were watching music videos or chasing trends, Raka was learning how the world worked behind the curtains.
Bitcoin. Stocks. Futures. Bear markets. Bull runs. Candlesticks. Leverage. Margin calls. Words that felt like spells—powerful and dangerous.
One video in particular haunted him. A man, barely thirty, explaining how he turned $500 into $5 million trading altcoins during the last bull run. The confidence, the numbers, the charts—it was addictive. It made Raka feel like maybe, just maybe, there was a way out.
But dreams cost money. And Raka had none.
That afternoon, Raka walked three kilometers to a nearby internet café. He didn't have money for coffee or tokens, but the owner let him stay as long as he helped clean at night. It was a fair deal—more than the world usually gave him.
He settled in front of a dusty monitor, opened YouTube, and typed:
"How to start crypto trading with no money."
Hours passed. He took notes in a ragged notebook, filling pages with unfamiliar terms: DeFi, gas fees, airdrops, wallets, staking. His mind buzzed with information, a burning desire waking up inside him. This wasn't just some scammy get-rich-quick plan. This was an ecosystem, a system where knowledge could flip destinies.
If he could understand it—really understand it—he might not be poor forever.
But it wasn't that simple.
He had no capital. No mentor. No laptop. No bank account. Not even a national ID that wasn't expired. Everything he had—his energy, his youth, his desperation—was invisible to the systems that built wealth.
He stared at the screen.
A blank account. Zero balance.
But for the first time in years, he didn't feel entirely hopeless.
"I'm tired of surviving," he whispered to himself.
"I want to live. I want to win."
Night fell like a heavy curtain. He walked home through trash-filled alleys, past sleeping dogs and shuttered stalls. The air smelled of fried oil and broken dreams. But inside Raka's chest, something had shifted. Something had begun.
He entered the house quietly. His mother was already asleep, curled in the corner like a wilted flower.
Raka knelt beside her, brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. "One day," he said softly, "you won't have to work like this. One day, we'll eat warm food in a house with no leaks. I'll find a way."
Outside, lightning flashed across the night sky, illuminating the slums like a cruel reminder. But Raka didn't flinch.
Because even in a world that buried him in debt, he had decided to dig upward.