The following two stories come from my March 2005 trip to tsunami-ravaged Indonesia. It was a life-changing trips for our entire team.

Both of these stories are in the book by Curt Iles, Hearts across the Water.


The Silent City

Our medical team, working in Sumatra for two weeks, made daily visits to at least two clinics. These were displaced centers for those who had survived the tsunami and were just trying to survive before deciding to rebuild.

Our team leaders who had been in the country for years would tell us before we left for that day's clinic, "Today you'll be up on the mountainside in an older village." Or, "This one is the farthest out. You'll see monkeys in the trees there."
But as they talked of our upcoming visit to Lampuuk they said, "It's the one where there aren't any children. It is the silent city."

As we arrived at most clinic locations we were met by a huge rush of children. They had figured out we would have crayons, coloring books, candy, and even toys from America. We quickly learned not to hand any of this out until we were ready to leave. Even then it was a chore to hold them back. Mothers would be in our face gesturing and speaking fast in Achenese saying that their children had gotten left out on the candy allotment.

But no laughing children or arguing mothers greeted us in Lampuuk. There was an eerie silence there that said more than any words could have ever spoken. The children were gone. Most of the sad-faced men present there had lost everything, including their precious families.
Out of a thriving village of 10,000, only 600 people survived the tsunami. Saddest of all, only six children survived. This included the two children of the Simeulue lady who ran through the streets trying to warn others. When no one would listen, she loaded her children in a car and rushed them to safety ahead of the first wave.

Our clinic at Lampuuk left a deep impression on all of our team. We became silent ourselves and talked in lowered voices as if in a cemetery. Looking around at the hundreds of white foundation slabs in every direction, we knew we were in the presence of a great flood of death had occurred.
I remembered the words of an old country preacher at our cemetery in Dry Creek: "We've come today to the city of the dead. This is as far as we can go before we lower this body into the ground." Looking around at the white grave markers and tombstones it did resemble a city.

A city of the dead.
A silent city.
That is exactly how Lampuuk looked and felt.
A silent city.
Once alive, but now empty.


Later the following weekend our team had Sunday off, so we each had time to do what we pleased. For some reason I wanted to return to Lampuuk. I felt this strange need to be at this village once more. The motorcycle taxi driver looked strangely at me as I requested a ride to Lampuuk.

There are few people living there now. That sunny day there were only a handful of men.
Most are gone, lost. I'm sure others have left never to return… too many bitter memories.
I spent the afternoon walking the empty streets and along the beach. I stopped where a golf course had been on the outskirts of town. I remembered one of the aid workers who lost a friend playing golf on that fateful morning. I couldn't help but wonder how it would feel to be standing here, golf club in hand, seeing the great wave approaching.

I found a shady spot under one of the few surviving trees and spent the afternoon just sketching, painting, and thinking. I painted a simple watercolor picture of what I felt like Lampuuk would look in the future:
With houses,
and gardens,
and bright colors again.

And best of all with children running and playing and laughing. The painting was not
really great but it came from my heart. In pencil I wrote on it:
To the village of Lampuuk. May the ocean once again be your friend.
May your streets be filled again with laughing children.

Before leaving Lampuuk I took it to a group of young men sitting on the porch of a makeshift store. They shared a bottle of water with me and I shared my painting with them as we attempted to visit. They knew no English and my phrasebook was inadequate for what I wanted to say. In fact, any language was inadequate for what I wished to say to them. I had no words anyway.

So I just left them the picture. They passed it around with many comments and gestures. One of them tacked it up on the wall of the little store. My own gesturing and pointing probably couldn't convey my prayers and good wishes for them.
But I'm sure someone came along later and explained the English writing. I hope they understand it and the heart it came from.
I hope it is still tacked up somewhere years later when the streets of the silent city of Lampuuk
are once again filled with the sounds of laughing children.




Henry


I met Henry among the ruins of Lampuuk on our first visit there. It had been over eleven weeks since the tsunami. Henry lived in a tent not far from the only remaining building in Lampuuk: the local Mosque. A handsome twenty-year-old with an infectious smile and wonderful personality, Henry quickly became the favorite among all of our medical team. He had excellent command of English as well as the widely spoken Basra Indonesian and the rarer Achenese dialect.

As we began to set up our medical clinic at Lampuuk, Henry came out of his tent to greet us. He seemed to be the official goodwill ambassador of the village. Henry had a cheerful, contagious smile that said, “I’ve been through a lot but I’m still standing. He also possessed a great pride that led him to question every American visitor with the same inquiry:

"Hey, have you ever met a president of your United States of America?"

Most of our replies were an honest, "No."

Our new Indonesian friend would then break out into a wide grin and proudly say,
"Well, I've shook hands with two of your presidents right here where we are standing. I visited with your presidents Bush senior and Clinton three weeks ago. We talked for over thirty minutes.” I could easily envision Henry schmoozing with our two leaders as they visited the Banda Aceh area earlier in February. I have no doubt he held his own in conversation with both of them.

Our team had earlier been told to meet Henry by a Los Angeles medical team that had befriended him and actually stayed overnight at his tent as guests.

As we visited, I asked Henry to show me where his house had been. We walked through the rubble and debris of what had once been a thriving village. He pointed to a nearby road and warned me not to cross past it. "That is rebel-controlled territory and the government cannot assure your safety past there." He shrugged as if it was no big deal. I was once again reminded that we were not only in a disaster zone, but a war zone where the Free Aceh movement had battled with governmental troops for over a decade. Due to this ongoing revolution, martial law was in force.

In every direction the only reminders of human habitation were the cement foundation slabs swept clean by the waves. We finally came to the slab that had been Henry's home. Then he began his story.

"On the morning of the earthquake everyone ran outside to look around. My dad and younger brother were with me. The shaking continued and was accompanied by a great deal of shouting and running around. When the message was passed around about the receding ocean and fish, many folks ran toward the ocean. For some reason, my father, brother, and I did not run. We simply stood there wondering what was next.

It was probably 10-15 minutes after the quake when we first heard it. You could hear the roar of the wave before you could see it. When we saw it coming everyone ran. My father and brother were behind me as we fled for our lives toward higher ground."

As Henry spoke, he pointed off to a grove of tall coconut trees about one-half mile away. "That is where I was headed. The wave, it was actually three waves traveling together, was moving about 30 kilometers per hour- slow enough to outrun for a short distance. Looking back I saw my father and brother trailing farther behind me. When the wave washed over the Mosque it was about to there on its side." Henry pointed to a spot about thirty feet high on the Mosque wall. Although it had stood, the entire Mosque was gutted and the stairwells had been torn away.

Henry continued as he pointed back toward the grove of trees, "The last I saw of my father and brother was when they were overtaken by the water. Eventually the water reached me and I frantically tried to run in it, and then swim. The debris being pushed along hindered free movement. I passed out and later awoke on higher ground near the trees. I have no idea how I escaped."

Henry's story and the way he so dispassionately told it touched me. It was as if he was describing a normal event or the happenings on another planet. I wondered how many times he had related his tale. Just because he told it without much emotion did not mean it was not burned deep into his soul. Here was a young man, the age of my sons, who had lost everything.
In the coming days we spent a great deal of time with Henry as he traveled with us to many of the clinics. He was great help with the older patients who spoke mainly Achenese. He would "interpret for the interpreters" as he translated the patient's Achenese symptoms to the interpreter who translated it into English for our doctors.

I think back to the difficulty of starting the renovation of an area so utterly devastated. Then I think of Henry. He had an optimism that the storm had not washed away. A deep inner resolve that was evident and indicative of the Achenese people we met and grew to love.

The task of rebuilding northern Sumatra, just like our task now in New Orleans and throughout our part of Louisiana, is completely overwhelming. In Lampuuk that day very little rebuilding had been done, even after three months. I thought to myself, "How would you even know where to start?"

Then I think about the young people I met there- Henry and his wonderful smile and "can do" personality. I see the faces of Raihail and her student nurses. I think of Saeed our driver each day.

And Dedek, a young Indonesian who worked with us. Then there is Jenni, a vibrant young Indonesian from another part of the country, casting her lot with these Achenese to rebuild their lives and cities. Plus there will be countless others who will be called upon to rebuild their cities.
The new Lampuuk will be different. Just as the new New Orleans will be also different. And as always, it will be young minds, and young hearts, and innovative minds that lead the way.