earthquake

i just sat down to try to do work stuff, and this is what came out instead...

The landscape was brick red. House after house, building after building – leveled. I picked up a fragment of broken brick in my hand and it crumbled like sand. Dust. Just like the houses did when the earth shook violently. The walls of feeble brick and shoddy mortar caved almost instantly; the rooftops, also red in the traditional color, came crashing in on whatever was inside. Furnishings, momentos, people, families… children, elderly. Fleeing the chaos, fighting for a way out as their homes collapsed on top of them. Calling for each other… wiping away the blood of head wounds, staggering on broken bones, clinging to one another … and then the earth was still. And the landscape was red.

One village I went in that had been completely demolished, a local man insisted on re-enacting for me amid the rubble of his home, how he postured with his hands over his head, in the exact spot where he was crouching when his roof gave way. Then he excitedly took me to the spot near his home where the water pipes under the ground first broke, eventually giving way throughout the whole village, and began to inundate the community within the first five minutes following the quake… so after the first disaster, there was another – a deluge of what he guessed was about three meters of water. And that night, as his neighbors camped in their makeshift shelter in the front yard of their destroyed home, the fire they were using for cooking set ablaze the tarp and wood scraps they had used to build the shelter. The only thing that saved the other shelters nearby from erupting was the lingering wetness from the flood, and the drenching rain that fell on and off throughout the night…

And he was just one… a survivor who had been through the unthinkable, but eagerly and openly shared his story with a stranger, whom he welcomed. As he talked his wife approached with their small child (the ones I’m photographed with below, their house is in the background). She, too, was strangely… happy. Chatting away to me in Bahasa Indonesia, even though I only understood a few words, and the translator couldn’t quite keep up, she kept sharing. To me, it didn’t quite compute… their warmth, their hospitality… amid devastation.

Community after community, the scene was similar. Those areas that were hit hard, relatively nothing was left standing. Though many in the region live with the imposing danger of Mt. Merapi erupting, they had never experienced an earthquake, much less one like this…. Perhaps they were in shock, and hadn’t processed what they’d experienced. But I don’t know…. The common thread I have seen throughout the people of Indonesia – from Aceh to Yogya – is resilience… perseverance…strength of family and community bonds. It’s an intangible foundation that no earthquake can shake, or tsunami could wipe away. They have faced an unprecedented three major disasters in just a year and a half – and have survived, will survive… and continue to move forward

Yes, there were many relief trucks on the road, canvassing the affected areas, trying despite logistical impossibilities to reach those in need. But in addition to that there were local people, with cars and trucks piled high with rice, water and clean-up crews, driving into communities and helping their neighbors – unselfishly – a small but viable source of respite for those struggling to cope. I continue to be awed and inspired by the compassion and generosity of people here…

There was the volunteer from our sister society here who saw the “American” on my vest and almost dive- tackled me, all amid the heat of the day and unloading a truck stocked high with supplies. “America, you are here!” he shouted. “Thank you, thank you, America for coming. Indonesia needs you!” I was so startled that I almost didn’t know what to say at first… “Of course we are, we are here to support you. We’re here to do whatever we can to help…” But from the beaming smile on his face, I knew he already knew that…

And the village chief, who insisted on driving me on the back of his moped through his totally destroyed village because the roads were too laden with debris for our car to get through… all the while the smoke of his clove cigarette blowing in my face. I sat silently, trying to take in the scene from his perspective, imagining a place you’ve lived your whole life where everything is familiar… to suddenly, in less than a minute, have that irreparably changed… He didn’t speak either, until we finally stopped on the opposite edge of the village, and he proudly insisted on showing the massive barn-like shelter his community had built from huge bamboo sticks and palm-like branches. Twenty-five families stayed there at night… and they had built it in just a few days after the quake. It was the only structure standing for miles around…

The field hospital was almost entirely full of elderly people. In the women’s tent, tiny older women lay in bed after bed after bed. Some had taken their clothes off because it was so hot. Others complained loudly, maybe because of pain, maybe the heat… Many had relatives sitting with them, fanning them slowly, sweetly… ignoring the sweat running down their own faces. Medical staff milled about, giving care and gently touches. Everyone was drenched in sweat… it was a typically hot day, and no breeze filtered through the heavily canvassed tent to other respite. It was touch and gentleness that brought relief…

But not all the injured were in the hospitals (which had reached the “manageable” level of running at four times their capacity, from six times their capacity right after the quake). Many with fractures and lacerations had returned to their community, or received help from the many mobile clinics roaming the affected areas. One day when I was with our psychosocial team, walking through a village asking children to come to an “informal school” site they had set up, we met one little boy on crutches whose bandaged leg was most likely broken. He was so sad, and would hardly raise his head to look at us. Other children around him were eager to “go to school” (as they squealed) but he sat, almost motionless, as we finally walked away to get the activities started. My colleague and I both looked back at him… wishing he would join us. Once we returned to the site, it was only a few minutes later, that I saw his mother emerge through the debris-covered street, her own arms bandaged from wounds, but carrying him proudly on her back. She sat him down with his crutches in his hand near the other children, and immediately a group of boys about his size saw him and shouted in excitement. You got the feeling they hadn’t seen each other since the disaster. They paused only for a moment, noticing his heavily-bandaged leg, and then went on chattering and playing. He remained a bit withdrawn at first, sitting at first outside the circle of other children… but he gradually became engaged, moving from the perimeter of activity, to the edge, and by the end of the activity, he sitting in the middle of all the other children, laughing, playing, talking… and smiling with one of the brightest smiles I’ve ever seen…

And so if he was smiling, why am I sitting here so tear-eyed writing about it? Perhaps it’s too much sadness and inspiration all at one time… perhaps I’m tired (ok, I’m definitely tired, I don’t know if I’ve ever worked so hard on so many different things at the same time in my life as I have the past ten days) … perhaps now, though, since I’m physically on my way back to “normal” life in Banda Aceh, that I’m realizing part of my heart is still there, wanting to be there, to be standing on the back of relief truck helping give out tents (instead of having a camera or notebook in my hand)….

“Relief” is a long time away for the people of Yogya – the debris-removal itself will be a monumental task. But I go with the confidence of knowing that neither this disaster, nor those in the past, will destroy the Foundations upon which their lives are truly built…