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Meulaboh,
Aceh, December 26, 2004 (Reuters photo)
|
“Please,
we are looking for M. Nizar Zainun, his wife Setiawati, and
their child Aisyah. Please pray for their safety … If you have
any information of their whereabouts, please contact the
following numbers…”
These
words were written on a piece of paper that was stuck on a
notice board at the Aceh Provincial Office of the Ministry of
Social Affairs in Banda Aceh, which has now been turned into a
refugee camp following the earthquakes and tsunamis that killed
107,000 people.
A
picture of the missing couple and the child accompanied the
notice. But while there are not many of such notices on this
particular notice board, thousands others can be found
everywhere in the capital city of Aceh. People desperate to
learn about the fate of their missing loved ones posted such
notices at various places—on the walls of shops and offices,
by the bridges, and at any lampposts or pillars still standing
after the quakes and tidal waves wrecked some 50 percent of the
province’s infrastructure.
Those
notices spoke of hope that, somehow, somebody would be able to
tell the writers that their loved ones were still alive, or even
dead—as long as the bodies could be found among thousands and
thousands of corpses littering the roads and streets—so that
the writers could finally lay the dead to rest, their fear and
questions answered.
For
days after the disaster struck on December 26, 2004, countless
Banda Aceh residents walked around as if in a daze, trying to
find their loved ones from under the rubble of buildings, among
the mud and dirt that soiled what was once a beautiful city.
He
started to accept that his family was no more. |
|
With
red-rimmed eyes swollen with too much crying, the zombie-like
survivors lifted sheets, clothing, or anything that was used by
others to cover so many dead bodies so that the flies would not
approach, as the corpses had begun to decay. Trying to recognize
a familiar face among so many bloated corpses, hoping against
hope, every so often, they got disappointed.
They
would continue walking—and they would lift the cover of yet
another dead body.
There
are happy stories, such as that of Teungku Raihan Iskandar, a
local activist of the Justice and Prosperous Party (PKS), who
lost one of his children for several days after the disaster. It
was a harrowing time, but he kept on working to help the wounded
and the homeless, and he responded, through interviews on the
Jakarta-based Elshinta radio station, to countless requests for
information on missing people. He kept on praying for the safe
return of his child, and was finally reunited with him.
There
are sad stories. Sayed Muhammad, yet another Muslim activist,
remembers hugging his three-month-pregnant wife who dropped him
off for a meeting at the provincial office of the Indonesian
Association of Muslim Intellectuals. “Don’t worry so much
about the earthquake; everything will be fine,” Sayed said,
kissing her goodbye.
She
left. Minutes afterwards Sayed thought he heard thunder—which
was actually the noise of the giant tidal waves crushing Banda
Aceh and much of the province’s western coast. He was safe
where he was, but his wife and two young children were nowhere
to be found.
Like
many other people, he fought rising desperation and walked for
so many kilometers trying to find his family. He kept searching
around what was formerly his neighborhood until he started to
accept that his family was no more.
He
held back tears, telling himself that if Allah took back what He
had given him, he would only pray that one day—in this world
or the Hereafter—he would be reunited with his wife and
children. Then he started to busy himself: he opened a temporary
school for some 350 children at a refugee camp in Darussalam
area—close to the Grand Baitul Rahman mosque—in Banda Aceh.
Only
once did he weep: when he saw the ultimate humiliation human
beings could suffer—namely when their dead bodies were
shoveled with heavy equipment, thrown in an open truck, and
dumped into mass graves.
“Why
are people being treated like animals? To be dumped like that,
to have to go without prayers being said over their bodies,
without the shroud?” his voice cracked and tears streamed down
his face.
Raihan
was fortunate not to have to post a notice. Sayed did not feel
the need to do so. But thousands others tried to cling to any
shred of hope they could find. They still tried to communicate
to their missing loved ones. They waited, prayed, and hoped.
Santi
Soekanto is
a journalist with 17 years of experience. Among the posts she has held
is national desk editor at The Jakarta Post. She can be reached
at santi_soekanto2001@yahoo.com
.
