New jobs, homes boost two Banda Aceh families
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That leaves Muammar and six other families without title casting around. In April, Muammar joined a network that collects data on landless families and petitions the government's land-acquisition program. They want the government to buy the land behind the banana grove and build homes for 200 families.
The clock is ticking. The two-year lease on the land in Tingkeum expires in April, and Muammar worries that the subdivision plan is bogged down in Indonesia's notorious bureaucracy. "I'm afraid the deal might collapse.... I think nobody cares about the people who don't have land. We're the unwanted stepchildren," he says softly.
Paul Dillon, a spokesman for the IOM, says Tingkeum and other temporary camps may need to negotiate with landowners to extend their stay. "The vast majority of families living in Tingkeum have received permanent homes or are in the process of getting them. The situation is repeated in upwards of 80 percent of the transitional communities that we've built," he says.
Not knowing where they will live next year seems like a burden for the family. But spend time with Zuhrasafita, whose friends call her Ira, and her two young children – son Athafayath and daughter Taysa – and her enthusiasm tells you otherwise.
For Ira, the tsunami had a silver lining: a new career as a kindergarten teacher. After starting this year at a daycare center in Tingkeum, she moved to a kindergarten run by a local educational nonprofit, which sent her to Jakarta for training in child development. More than 700 schools have been rebuilt in Aceh and Nias out of 1,100 schools that were damaged.
Ira dreams of turning a future house into a child-friendly space where kids can drop by. "I don't want to have a big or luxurious house, but a comfortable house," she says.
Before she married, Ira studied at secretarial college. Marriage and motherhood put her career on hold, and teaching has infused Ira with a zest for life. "My life now, compared to before the tsunami, is better. I am happier and my life is more beautiful, wonderful, and colorful," she says.
Among the children of both families there are few outward signs of the upheavals in their lives. Juria says that Feri, her eldest son, no longer insists on sleeping with his parents and rarely suffers nightmares. His teachers say he is better behaved, an exuberant if naughty boy.
Adults grapple with their own grief. For Juria, pining for her dead children is checked by work to supplement her husband's efforts. She wonders if she could bear another child, to try for a daughter. But first, she wants a permanent house. "I like a lot of activities. If I stay home, I start to remember the tsunami, so I try to stay busy," she says.
On the wall of Muammar's bedroom hangs a canvas. A menacing wave looms over a thicket of gray houses. He paints at night when he can't sleep, and has been working on the canvas for three months. This is his third version. "I started painting, and this just appeared in my mind," he says. "It's not for exhibition. It's for me."
On a recent morning, his son perched on the front of Muammar's motorcycle, clutching a red King Kong schoolbag. It was first day back at kindergarten after an absence that spanned Ira's time in Jakarta. Muammar wanted to drop off his son and take Ira to her school before continuing to the TV station where he works. Taysa was staying with a neighbor until Muammar returned at lunch time.
The motorbike threaded through the traffic, past emerald-green rice fields. At school, Athafayath raced to the merry-go-round while Ira went to speak to teachers. Muammar stood quietly, watching his son.
Did he make the right choices on the road to recovery? Yes, he nods.
"We have a happy family life," he says. "We created this happiness in the tent (last year). Now we have it in our current house. We can always bring this happiness, wherever we go."
