A journalist ponders lives changed forever

By Nani Afrida

Special to The Seattle Times

BANDA ACEH, Indonesia — It has been one year since the tsunami devastated Aceh.

What Aceh looked and felt like when the tsunami struck, and the panic of the people around me are still fresh in my mind. The sad faces of those looking for missing family members stick in my memory. And like any other survivor, I’ve had to accept the fact that half of Banda Aceh disappeared in the huge waves.

As a journalist for five years, I know every corner of Banda Aceh and the surrounding landscape, the places that I scour every day to gather news.

A few hours after the tidal wave, I stood alone at the edge of the city, staring at the vast expanse of seawater. There was no sight of the houses that once stood closely in a row, and familiar roads had vanished. Everything was flattened by the giant waves.

In that moment, I realized that the lives of the Acehnese, including me, had changed forever.

I never stop expressing my gratitude to God for allowing me to survive and witness the events after this disaster.

But working as a local reporter in a disaster area isn’t as easy as one might think. Jakarta and foreign journalists might find reporting on such a calamity to be a goldmine of stories.

For me, as an Acehnese, the job has become a burden.

In the last several months, I’ve heard the same stories over and over: The sorrow of survivors continuing to search for their missing loved ones, their futile queries about houses or jobs, their worries about an uncertain future.

Two of the questions I hear most frequently are “When shall we get our houses?” and, “Why are we still living in tents while there are quite a lot of nongovernmental organizations in Aceh?”

There are more than 500,000 homeless people in Aceh today. Most live in tents or barracks or stay with relatives. One year after the tsunami, only 16 percent of the planned 200,000 new houses have been built. Only God knows when the remaining ones will be built.

The patience of those living in makeshift tents is wearing thin. Worse still, they feel their misery has been exploited by many parties.

In this case, their displeasure and distrust are not only aimed at the government and relief workers, but also journalists. I don’t often feel offended or angry by their reaction.

But at times, when I interview them in their tents, their words hurt my heart.

I know perfectly well that there have been positive changes since the tsunami. The Indonesian government and the Free Aceh Movement (GAM) signed a peace deal to end 30 years of fighting. Martial law was lifted, opening up Aceh to the world. That has been a blessing for all of us.

But too little has changed in the lives of the tsunami victims.

The less fortunate are still in tents, having to put up with the unfavorable effects of the rainy season — wet roads, malaria mosquitoes and dirty water. Some tents have begun to wear out.

The luckier ones live in barracks. Each barrack measuring 2×2 square meters must accommodate two to three families, and people sleep packed like sardines. There are few regular jobs.

Relief groups organize work-for-cash programs where each person is paid 35,000 rupiah — about $3.50 per day — but these aren’t steady. And the government’s monthly allocation of 90,000 rupiah — around $9 — does not come on a regular basis.

Everything is costly in Aceh now, with prices pegged to the U.S. dollar, the currency used by foreign-aid organizations. Rice, for example, is now two or three times more expensive than before the tsunami.

Many survivors have begun to show their disgust at outsiders, foreign or otherwise, who drive about in luxury cars while they sit despondently in their tents. They have little confidence in the Indonesian government, believing graft keeps them from receiving the help they deserve.

I sometimes feel frustrated because I believe that the situation in Aceh will hardly change.

I have met Nurleili, a 23-year-old girl whose right leg had to be amputated. I have met Mar, 54, a housewife who is still staying in her tent. I have met Hasra, a 23-year-old homeless victim now staying in a barrack.

When I came to them for a story about tsunami victims, the three asked me the same question: “Do you think our fate will change for the better after you write about us? Many have written about us, but our plight remains.”

Now, though a year has gone by, I feel as if the disaster took place just yesterday.

It seems like only a short time ago that I saw the residents in the Meuraxa district sitting on their terraces while it was raining, eating fried bananas with their families. Now, these people — their families torn apart — sit in wet tents counting the passing days.

I still have fresh memories of a time before the tsunami, when residents of the Kemukimam Lamdingin would smile hospitably and ask me to drop by when I passed their houses at night. Nowadays, they are busy each night drying out their tents from the flood that rushes in with the high tide.

It is too difficult to smile.

At these moments, I realize that I long to see Aceh as beautiful as it was before disaster struck, at a time when people still smiled.

Nani Afrida is an Acehnese journalist

who writes for the Jakarta Post

and other publications.

Copyright © 2005 The Seattle Times Company

Konvoi Razia

Tulisan ini pernah dimuat di Sindikasi Pantau.

==

Konvoi Razia
Oleh Nani Afrida

SUARA adzan Isya berkumandang dari Masjid Raya Baiturrahman yang terletak di tengah kota Banda Aceh. Awan hitam menggantung di langit. Udara malam makin menusuk, karena angin dingin bertiup.Tak jauh dari Baiturrahman, di kantor walikota Banda Aceh, ada kesibukan tersendiri. Ruang Pelaksana Peraturan Daerah (Paperda) yang terletak di pojokan dipenuhi anggota Paperda dan wilayatulhisbah atau sering disebut sebagai polisi syariah.Setelah briefing, mereka bersama-sama mengambil air wudhu untuk shalat Isya berjamaah di masjid.

Wilayatulhisbah di Aceh populer dengan sebutan WH. Tugas mereka menindak perempuan Islam yang tak mengenakan busana muslim, menangkap pasangan beda kelamin yang berdua-duaan (khalwat), dan meringkus pemabuk (khamar) serta penjudi (maisir). Keempat hal tersebut memang sudah diatur dalam qanun atau peraturan daerah. Hukum terberat bagi pelanggar qanun adalah hukuman cambuk.

Dalam melaksanakan tugas ini, wilayatulhisbah dibantu Paperda. Maklum, mereka belum memiliki wewenang sebagaimana Paperda yang berstatus pegawai negeri sipil alias PNS. Meski begitu seragam sudah paten. Setelan hijau-hijau.

Petugas Paperda berseragam coklat. Di kota besar seperti Jakarta, anggota Paperda bertugas menertibkan pedagang kaki lima atau penjual sayuran di pasar agar tak berjualan di jalur kendaraan lewat atau sembarang tempat.

Serombongan wartawan, termasuk saya, tiba di kantor walikota malam itu. Kami mendengar kabar bahwa razia syariah Islam akan dilakukan di seputaran kota selepas Isya.

SAYA pernah beberapa kali mengikuti razia syariah. Tetapi kebanyakan dilakukan siang atau sore hari.

Razia jilbab, istilah ini lebih kondang daripada razia syariah Islam, biasanya dilakukan di jalan yang sering dilewati warga. Misalnya, di jalan T.M. Daud Beureueh.

Dengan dibantu polisi atau pun petugas Paperda, wilayatulhisbah melakukan tugasnya. Semua kendaraan umum atau kendaraan bermotor diberhentikan. Targetnya perempuan-perempuan yang dianggap tak memakai pakaian yang pantas selaku muslim.

Setelah diperiksa, mereka dibawa ke kantor polisi syariah untuk diberi penyuluhan tentang cara berpakaian yang baik. Mereka biasa diangkut dengan truk reo atau mobil pick-up. Prosesi penyuluhan diakhiri dengan menandatangani perjanjian untuk tak mengulangi lagi berpakaian “kurang sopan”.

Biasanya yang terjerat razia jilbab ini adalah anak remaja atau istilah gaulnya, anak baru gede alias ABG. Mereka berjilbab, tapi mengenakan jins ketat yang memperlihatkan mata kaki.

Kadang-kadang saya kasihan bercampur geli melihat mereka. Para ABG itu malas-malasan menjawab pertanyaan. Sama sekali tidak koperatif dan terkadang terkesan asbun alias asal bunyi.

Namun saya lebih sering tersinggung melihat bagaimana petugas Paperda atau polisi memperlakukan mereka. Terkadang ada yang iseng mencolek-colek para remaja ini saat digiring ke truk. Atau mengeluarkan kalimat-kalimat menggoda.

Saya sendiri bahkan nyaris jadi target razia. Penyebabnya, karena saya memakai celana kargo berkantong banyak ketika meliput operasi tersebut.

“Ini ‘kan celana laki-laki,” kata seorang wilayatulhisbah.

“Loh, ini celana segala jenis kelamin, lagipula tidak ketat,” kata saya membela diri.

Kami sempat berdebat. Dan debat berakhir begitu dia tahu saya seorang wartawan.

Banyak kejadian aneh, tak wajar, konyol, dan tak adil yang saya temui saat razia jilbab ini. Misalnya, sewaktu masa darurat militer pada 2004 lalu, pernah suatu hari wilayatulhisbah menangkap seorang perempuan tanpa jilbab.

Si korban menangis tersedu-sedu, kemudian sibuk berbicara di telepon selulernya. Dalam hitungan menit, muncul seorang tentara beserta beberapa temannya.

Selanjutnya bisa ditebak. Sang prajurit sukses membawa sang kekasih dengan sepeda motor, menghilang dari pandangan semua orang yang melongo melihat kejadian itu.

Pernah juga di di bulan-bulan awal setelah tsunami saya melihat wilayatulhisbah menangkap tukang becak beserta anak perempuannya, hanya karena sang anak memakai jilbab tetapi blus yang dikenakan berlengan pendek.

Sang bapak yang ternyata pengungsi korban tsunami itu sedang dalam perjalanan ke rumah sakit. Perjalanannya tertahan karena putrinya terjaring razia. Dia langsung protes.

“Kenapa mesti becak yang ditahan, kenapa tidak mobil-mobil mewah yang diberhentikan. Mentang-mentang kami orang miskin,” katanya.

Saya masih ingat wajah lelaki itu. Matanya merah dan berkaca-kaca ketika berkata-kata.

Ini kisah sukses polisi syariah, karena kebetulan yang dirazia lebih bersikap pasrah. Di beberapa kawasan ada sedikit perlawanan. Misalnya saja di kabupaten Pidie dan kotamadya Sabang. Pelaku razia tak dibiarkan berbuat sewenang-wenang oleh warga

Ikhwan, seorang warga Pidie, nyaris membacok wilayatulhisbah dengan golok. Pasalnya, para petugas ini masuk halaman rumah Ikhwan untuk menahan Atik, pembantu rumah tangganya yang tengah menyiram bunga. Ketika itu Atik tak mengenakan jilbab. Untunglah Ikhwan selaku empunya rumah melihat kejadian tersebut. Tanpa ba bi bu dia langsung ke dapur dan menyambar golok, kemudian mengejar para wilayatulhisbah itu.

Mereka lari tunggang-langgang, menyelamatkan diri.

“Ini sudah keterlaluan. Masa’ berani masuk ke halaman rumah orang,” kata Ikhwan pada saya.

Di Sabang wilayatulhisbah kena bantunya juga. Mereka menangkap seorang gadis yang baru pulang belajar di rumah temannya pada malam hari. Orang tua si gadis protes dan tindakan ini didukung warga.

Warga mengejar wilayatulhisbah sampai ke kantornya. Seisi kantor pun diobrak-abrik. Kerusuhan berakhir setelah terjadi musyawarah.

Raja Radan, kepala subdinas Pengawasan Syariat Islam Banda Aceh, membela anak buahnya. Dia tak percaya wilayatulhisbah bertindak arogan. Menurut dia, mereka itu menjalankan tugas secara syariah Islam.

KINI rombongan petugas razia yang terdiri dari anggota Paperda dan wilayatulhisbah sudah berada di jalan T.M. Daud Beureueh, kawasan yang bila malam hari terkenal dengan gerobak burgernya.

Puluhan gerobak burger terlihat mangkal, lengkap dengan meja dan bangku kecil untuk para pembeli. Parapengusaha burger ini kebanyakan anak muda. Mereka menjajakan dagangannya dari pukul 17.00 hingga pukul 23.00. Kadang-kadang terdengar musik hip hop atau disko dari gerobak-gerobak tadi. Lampu-lampu kecil atau lampion merah digantung. Suasananya jadi agak remang-remang. Namun letaknya yang di pinggir jalan membuat anak-anak muda enjoy nongkrong di situ.

Rombongan petugas razia berhenti di kedai burger “Gondrong”, salah satu gerobak. Para penjual langsung diinterogasi. Para pembeli kena razia. Yang kebetulan sedang duduk dengan lawan jenisnya dan atau tanpa jilbab langsung digiring ke mobil.

Petugas Paperda mengangkut semua milik penjual burger tersebut, termasuk tenda dan bangku-bangku.

“Ini semua disita, supaya jadi pelajaran untuk tidak menggunakan lampu remang-remang,” kata seorang petugas paperda dengan suara yang keras.

Malkin, pemilik kedai “Gondrong” yang juga berambut gondrong itu juga diangkut ke mobil petugas. Kepergiannya diiringi tangis sang ibu yang kebetulan berada di tempat kejadian.

“Pak, anak saya jangan diapa-apakan, ya,” isak perempuan setengah baya itu.

Para penjual burger yang merupakan anak buah Malkin terpaku. Bahkan roti yang sedang dipanggang terlihat kehitaman karena hangus. Mereka sudah tidak acuh pada roti itu lagi.

Wartawan tak kalah terpana melihat adegan tersebut. Beberapa diantaranya mulai tak bergairah meliput.

“Sepertinya sudah over acting,” kata seorang teman pada saya dengan muka kecewa.

Malkin dibawa ke kantor Paperda. Bersama Malkin, beberapa wanita yang terjaring ikut serta.

Malkin mulai berceloteh. Nada suaranya kesal. Menurut dia, sangat tak masuk akal menuduh kedai burgernya mengundang maksiat karena penerangan yang remang-remang.

“Saya berjualan dekat jalan raya. Masa’ ada yang mau berbuat mesum di pinggir jalan,” katanya, lagi.

Malkin berjualan burger sejak tiga tahun lalu. Dia bisa mandiri berkat usahanya. Keluarganya juga mendukung.

“Islam tidak seperti ini. Seharusnya hukum bertindak adil. Tidak hanya pada orang-orang kecil. Tetapi juga yang korupsi,” kata Malkin lagi.

Di kawasan Peunayong, petugas menggeledah sebuah salon kecantikan. Mereka curiga ada lelaki di situ. Ternyata tak ada. Ujung-ujungnya para pegawai salon yang dijadikan sasaran. Lantaran tak berjilbab mereka terancam ditangkap. Semua perempuan itu protes.

“Kami ini berada di rumah sendiri. Ini wilayah kami, mau pakai jilbab atau tidak,” kata mereka, tersinggung.

Konvoi razia bergerak lagi.

‘Serambi Indonesia’ survives the tsunami | The Jakarta Post

‘Serambi Indonesia’ survives the tsunami | The Jakarta Post.

I survived — to write | The Jakarta Post

My first story for The Jakarta Post after Aceh hit by tsunami in Dec. 26 2004

I survived — to write | The Jakarta Post.

The Jakarta Post, Jakarta | | Sun, April 17 2005, 1:40 PM

A- A A+

Nani Afrida, The Jakarta Post, Banda Aceh

Maybe I’m just fortunate. I wasn’t among the victims — at least half of the Banda Aceh population — who were swept away on Dec. 26.

I’ve never experienced anything so terrible. I was shocked and confused. Half of our pretty town was flattened. The places I used to visit were gone. Many people I knew were suddenly “”missing””.

I live on the outskirts of the town; it isn’t an elite area, but it was safe — but only just: it was 500 meters from the approaching edge of the black waves that swallowed a vast area of the town.

Of course, during the strong earthquake that hit about 30 minutes earlier, the probability of the waves reaching us never crossed my mind as I was taking pictures of its aftermath.

Then I met my friend Jairin from the Medan-based Waspada daily. He wasn’t covering any story. He was crying, in a panic, trying to find his wife. He said her hand had slipped from his grasp when they were running from the waves…

Everyone else was running around, trying to find their families, their loved ones who had suddenly vanished in only a matter of seconds.

I know I’m a journalist, but it was the most difficult time I ever had in doing my job. There was no electricity, no Internet. Even if there had been, there was no way I could have concentrated enough to file a story.

I was terrified that the tremors and waves would come again — the same fear that was overwhelming the rest of the town. I was consumed by the whereabouts of my friends: Were they dead? Where were they?

It was a great relief to find a few of them. We met near the local headquarters of the Indonesian Journalists Association (PWI), exchanging stories and sharing three packages of instant noodles among six people. We cooked them with a branch off a tree in an old saucepan that we found in the ruins. Thousands of residents had to queue for hours under the close watch of soldiers just to get their rations of rice and noodles.

I went to Medan with a friend on the fourth day after the tsunami and we returned with a car full of foodstuff and other supplies.

Over the following weeks I still tried to write — and failed. Amid all these journalists coming here and producing fantastic coverage, I was confused. I would get a good idea, then it would vanish when I sat in front of the computer.

In each attempted coverage I met refugees who would retell the same tales all over again, the loss of family and property. And I would cry along with the retelling of dozens, and eventually perhaps hundreds, of such stories.

It may sound ridiculous, but I was a victim too. On the sixth day after the tragedy, I managed to write my first story, and it was done with great difficulty. The stories that followed also required intense concentration, so I only contributed a few published stories in the months immediately after the disaster, while journalists from outside the province were writing and filing dozens of stories.

In all honesty, I was in shock and grieving. I was depressed and envious of other reporters who could continue to work.

On the first day, a friend was able to manage some coverage only after she had found her father; I could only imagine how she really felt then.

I began to think I was far from a good, professional journalist.

It was the most difficult period in my career, even harder than the moment the waves destroyed major parts of this province, Nanggroe Aceh Darussalam — the name rings rather oddly now; it means the land of peace and prosperity.

I was virtually inactive for two months.

Friends and colleagues from Jakarta reminded me how silly I was being.

“”This is the big chance we’ve been waiting for us as journalists. Why don’t you use it?””

I knew this, but it wasn’t that easy.

Treatment for this mental state came through lots of encouragement from all these friends. But the main therapeutic course was to continue to visit the shelters and to hear the survivors’ stories — but this time, mustering up enough self-control and focus to enable myself to maintain an objective distance.

I realize that I must keep writing and reporting on the conditions in Aceh. It is all the more important because this province might be forgotten in light of the many disasters occurring elsewhere, while hundreds of thousands live in distress still.

I must also continue to write because there’s a small possibility that it’s the only reason God spared my life.

Nani began her career as a journalist in 2000 with the Banda Aceh-basedSerambi daily; she is now the Aceh correspondent for The Jakarta Post.