The Mangrove Voices

“Stop! Please, stop cutting!” cried a voice so soft it almost blended with the wind—until Amir realized it was coming from inside his head.

He froze on the muddy bank of Teluk Bahang’s mangrove forest, his rubber boots sinking slightly into the squishy earth. Just moments ago, he’d been sketching crabs in his notebook, hidden beneath the tangled roots like a secret explorer. But now, chainsaws growled through the air, and men in dusty boots were hacking at the thick, stilt-like trunks of the ancient trees.

Then he heard it again. Clearer this time. A whisper, like rustling paper and distant rain:
“They’re taking our arms. We can’t breathe.”

Amir blinked. “Who said that?” he whispered.

“You hear us?” The voice came from a tall, silver-barked mangrove with roots like spider legs stretching into the brackish water. “Only hearts that love the forest can listen.”

Amir’s heart thumped. He’d always felt close to the mangroves—the way they hugged the shore like gentle giants, sheltering tiny fish, hermit crabs, and kingfishers. But hearing them? That was impossible… wasn’t it?

A small splash made him turn. Lily N, the quick-witted girl who ran the beach cleanup crew, waded through the shallows, her bright yellow rain boots splashing. “Amir! What are you doing out here alone? There’s loggers near the east creek!”

“They’re hurting the trees,” Amir said, his voice trembling. “And… the trees are talking to me.”

Lily N narrowed her eyes. “Talking?”

“I know how it sounds,” Amir mumbled, “but listen.” He closed his eyes and focused. The breeze carried more voices—sad, scared, but strong.

“We hold the shore. We feed the sea. We cannot speak with mouths, but we have sung for centuries.”

Lily N gasped. “I… I feel it. Like a hum in my chest.”

Just then, Eddy and Anna burst through the undergrowth, bikes skidding in the mud. “We saw trucks!” Eddy panted. “They’re loading logs!”

“We’ve got to stop them,” Anna said, hands on hips. “But how?”

Amir swallowed hard. He wasn’t brave like Eddy, or bold like Anna. He preferred quiet walks and drawing birds. But the trees’ whispers filled his ears like a song only he could sing back.

“I think… I have to speak for them,” he said softly.

The others stared.

“You mean—like, tell people?” asked Bell, appearing with Emma and Alexis, who had followed the noise.

Amir nodded. “If no one listens to the trees, maybe they’ll listen to me .”

That night, under a sky dusted with stars, the group gathered at the old fishing pier. They made signs from driftwood and seaweed: SAVE OUR MANGROVES , LISTEN TO THE TREES , WE NEED ROOTS TO LIVE!

X, the tech-savvy kid with solar-powered headphones, recorded Amir’s voice as he shared what the mangroves had told him—the way their roots cleaned the water, gave baby fish safe homes, and held back storm waves like nature’s fortress.

“We didn’t know,” whispered old Captain Pye, leaning on his walking stick nearby. “We thought the mangroves were just messy bushes.”

“They’re not,” Amir said, standing taller. “They’re guardians. And they’re scared.”

The next morning, the children marched down the boardwalk toward the village square, their signs held high. News spread fast. Even Hyuga, the quiet kite-maker, joined with a banner shaped like a mangrove leaf.

When the loggers returned, they were met not by silence, but by singing.

Children’s voices rose above the lapping waves:
“Roots in the mud, arms to the sky,
Mangroves protect us, you and I!”

The lead logger paused, chainsaw idle. He looked at the crowd, then at the twisted, ancient trees behind them—trees with faces almost, in the way the bark curled like wise old smiles.

“What’s so special about these?” he asked.

Amir stepped forward. “They talk,” he said simply. “And they say thank you—for listening.”

The man frowned, then knelt, touching the wet soil. A tiny mudskipper leaped past his boot. A white egret glided overhead, landing gently on a root.

“This place… it’s alive,” he murmured.

By afternoon, the trucks were gone. The village elders called a meeting. With help from X’s video and Lily N’s petition, they declared the Teluk Bahang mangroves a protected sanctuary.

Weeks later, Amir sat beneath his favorite tree, sketching a crab with emerald claws. The breeze brushed his cheek.

“Thank you, little listener,” whispered the mangrove. “You gave us voice.”

Amir smiled. “You were loud all along. I just learned how to hear.”

And from that day on, whenever the wind rustled through the tangled roots and salty leaves, the children of Teluk Bahang would pause, smile, and whisper back:

“We’re listening.”