The genocide by geology that we call the tsunami has turned the locals’ world upside down. One month into the tragedy, its most profound consequence for the Acehnese of Meulaboh may not be the fact that it has taken so many lives, but the particular way it did so. For the tsunami not only dismembered the society; it has challenged the society’s mode of life, hurt its pride and symbols, and has compelled its remaining members to redefine their relationship with God.
All of sudden, city dwellers were missing or displaced and landlords turned into poor tenants, as boats arrived in the city center and cars went into the sea. With the physical and social landscape vastly changed, Meulaboh’s way of life will likewise be affected. For some, the disaster reminds them of what they call iebeuna.
“I recall my grandpa using that word to predict a tidal wave that would swept over the coast,” Meulaboh anthropologist Jakaruddin Yacob, 34, told Radio Netherlands recently. Some ulema (religious scholars) support the claim that this was predicted as far back as 40 years ago.
Yet, few Acehnese today recall their ancestors’ warning, this writer found out last week.
Jakaruddin survives, but most of his 10 related families, around 38 men, women and children, are missing – they all lived in the same neighborhood of Ujung Karang. Zulyaden (34), Jemmi Tanjung (41), Syahril (27) and Merwan (33), to mention but a few, lost respectively nine, 34, six and 11 members of their kin groups. In each case, they all lived in the same areas of Ujung Kalak and Ujung Karang. Married relatives often came in later, but the pattern is said to have been motivated by “the wish to strengthen brotherhood among kin members”, although economic reasons may underlie the decisions.
This spatial pattern of kin grouping and regrouping have thus made the tragedy even more dramatic. Some kin groups in the disaster zone lost considerably more members than other because they lived close to each other. Those who suffered most but without any relatives outside the zone were expected to stay in the internally displaced persons (IDP) camps.
The stunning reality, however, is that only a third – about 10,000 of 35,000 – of the surviving victims in Meulaboh are living in the camps. The figures for Aceh are proportionally similar: only 260,000 of 460,000 to 600,000 IDPs are staying in the camps. While most victims may have been accommodated by their own kin group, a great deal chose to stay with kin groups other than theirs, or with friends, rather than in the government-organized camps. Help from outside the disaster zone obviously cannot help much. Solidarity within and among kin groups may be strong, but it’s not a remedy.
Unfortunately, local authorities grossly ignored this, leaving the IDPs outside the camps — the IDP majority — without any help for more than a month. Only those in the camps were treated as victims. In Meulaboh, this has created serious tensions between Army units and Bakorlak (the agency for crisis management), including the keuchik (village chiefs), who relocated the victims to the camps and are responsible for food distribution, and thousands of angry IDPs.
The authorities clearly misjudged the kin-and-friendship solidarity. Instead of asking the local communities to participate or let social organizations help the victims with some coordination and limited bureaucracy, the relief operation has been military-styled: too centralized.
By ignoring the kin-oriented pattern of housing and social relations, they were unable to help them satisfactorily, losing the best momentum to seize the heart of the IDPs and the local communities. This has worsened the already traumatic relationship between the people and the Army even in areas like Meulaboh, where separatist rebels never had a stronghold.
Meulaboh is also challenged in a different way as the tsunami swept away the symbol of the city’s respect for its hero, Teuku Umar (1854-1899). A Meulaboh man famous for his heroic struggle against the Dutch, Teuku Umar left an eternal legacy. The locals call their city — and affectionately spell the name in the original version – Boemi Teuku Oemar Djohan Pahlawan (the land of Teuku Oemar Djohan the Hero). To praise his greatness, a white statue called Kopiah Maketoep (Crown Kopiah) was built in the 1980s along the Batu Putih coast, where he died in 1899. That symbol is now vanished. The first version of the Kopiah, built in the 1960s, was also drowned years ago.
Has the tsunami dishonored the city by robbing it of this symbol? The Acehnese of Meulaboh are quick to deny it -albeit for good reasons. “One symbol of Teuku Umar’s greatness may be drowned and built a hundred times, but we still have his spirit and symbol,” said Jakaruddin.
A sense of dishonor, however, may be felt as people of Meulaboh reflect on the meaning of the disaster itself. In the local discourse, the quake and tsunami tragedy is invariably seen as God’s message. It evokes queries on the faithfulness of the Meulabohs to Islam. “Aceh is the veranda of Mecca,” a middle-aged driver, Abu Bakar, reminded us. “This is a holy place where one has to pass and learn Islam before going to the holiest one, Mecca. But do you know what often happened at the coast at night? They were all too joyful.”
To people like Abu Bakar, the disaster is ‘a curse’, an expression of God’s anger, but among the more educated people it is seen as ‘a lesson’ or ‘warning’, not a punishment.
Retika (20) of Suara Aceh (Voice of Aceh) radio echoed this conclusion. “Don’t get stuck in the sadness!” How did a young woman, who lost everything, including her parents and siblings, do that? “By being closer to God,” said Retika.
Children, too, learn to perceive a moral message in the shaped disaster. Said Shirley (15), a madrasah student: “The legend has it that tsunami consists of three colors. Most devastating is the black tsunami, which is aimed at those who do not pray. You also have the white and yellow ones, which are intended for the faithful and the children.”
The tsunami has thus become a defining moment for the Meulaboh society.
