Hearing the sound of footsteps on the path, Farhan looks up from the Koran and straightens his dark velvet ‘topi’ which had slipped slightly over his right ear. He walks over to the door of the community center where the children from the village of Mukhan study the Koran every day after school. Creases form on his forehead as he squints in the late afternoon sun streaming through the entrance. Farhan might not be standing there if International Medical Corps had not put out an urgent appeal to help him. In fact, this nine-year-old boy’s future would have been tragically quashed by his defective heart, which was gradually sapping his strength and would have eventually given up on him.
On December 26, 2004, the tsunami wiped out his village and nearly his entire family, including his parents and young sisters. A neighbor grabbed Farhan and his brother, Hidayat, and they ran to the mountains. But while Farhan survived the terrifying ordeal, he had yet to face another threat on his life.
Because of his heart surgery, nine-year-old Farhan can now play football and swim with his friends.
The summer after the tsunami, during a weekly clinic held by International Medical Corps in a nearby village, Farhan’s uncle brought him to see Dr. Amrul, one of International Medical Corps’ doctors. He complained that the young boy’s fingers and lips sometimes turned blue and that he suffered shortness of breath. Dr. Amrul immediately recognized the symptoms of congenital heart disease, which if left untreated, would kill him. Farhuan required a total correction surgery on his weak heart as soon as possible.
But for that lifesaving operation to happen he would have to travel thousands of kilometres to Jakarta and his uncles could not afford the airfare, let alone the $7,000 operation. International Medical Corps made an immediate appeal for help in covering the costs of the surgery. Yayasan Sukma, an Indonesian charitable foundation, partnered with the Harapan Kita Cardiac Hospital in Jakarta to give back a childhood and a future to this boy who had already lost so much. Farhan’s successful heart operation took place in November 2005.
Farhan just days after his operation.
A flicker of recognition shows on Farhan’s face when he sees the ‘buleh’ – or foreigner – he first met six months ago. In some ways he seems to be the same shy and silent young boy he was then but physically much healthier and stronger. Still, Farhan isn’t the only one who has changed. As we follow him through the village to the house where he lives with his two uncles and Hidayat, the swarm of activity all around us is a sign of homes and livelihoods being restored. Mukhan is a remote village in Lamno on the west coast of Aceh. Here, like in so many other areas along Aceh’s coastline, the tsunami left total devastation. As we walk along the path, we step over wooden planks and dodge the wheelbarrows carrying materials to and from the construction areas. Newly built houses are interspersed with shells of homes being rebuilt.
We turn the corner and see the place where he used to live. A few months after the tsunami, it had been a plain square of dried grass, masking any traces of the vibrant family life that had once existed. Now, the frame of a new house has been erected to replace the one that had been destroyed. Although it eventually will be passed on to Farhan and Hidayat, for now the children will continue to live with their uncles until they are old enough to live independently.
Village children crowd around Farhan.
Giggling and whispering, the other children from the village crowd around Farhan wanting to have their photo taken with him. They know why he is special, as he has shown them the eight-inch scar on his chest. He has also told them about his first time on a plane and the big hospital in Jakarta.
As we approach their home we see Farhan’s other uncle, Abdullah, working on the playground of the village school that is being reconstructed. Farhan not only missed many days of school due to his illness, he also could not be part of the village football team, which was a big disappointment for him.
Abdullah walks towards us, smiling. “The two classrooms and the playground are almost finished,” Abdullah explains, gesturing back toward the school. He pats Farhan on his back and says, laughing, “And he is no longer standing on the edge of that playground missing out. He is now such an important part of the football team. Tell them what position you play.”
Farhan looked up and whispered that he played offense. Abdullah added, “He is also getting very good at hitting the ball with his head. Just like his father. He used to be in attack too and really good at the sport.” Farhan’s uncles briefly glance at each other, acknowledging their mutual loss.
We settled ourselves on the colourful woven mats in the small house. Everywhere there are reminders that this is a community displaced. Boxes of aid from various NGOs, blankets and books are piled high. Farhan obediently opens his shirt so International Medical Corps nurse, Hussein, can check his scar. His uncles talk about the fact that he is a totally changed boy since his operation. He has regained his appetite, is energetic, plays football and swims in the river everyday. He is also very committed to his evening Koran study classes.
“If only his parents could see him like this,” Sabiri said in a voice filled with emotion. His hands tremble slightly as he opens his wallet and shows me the small passport-size photos. “That is his mother and father, and this is my wife who was killed as well.” Farhan and his brother Hidayat have never spoken about their parents since the tsunami. Their uncles have not wanted to talk about it either. They prefer to keep the past buried and focus on their hopes for the future.
Farhan enjoyes sweet treats with his uncles
Trays of biscuits, traditional jelly sweets and Acehnese coffee are laid out on the mat in front of us. Farhan grins and reaches out to grab a sweet. Sabiri chuckles, “Look, we said he had an appetite, didn’t we?” The two uncles seem almost like twins, two brothers with the same kind and proud eyes and determined smiles. “We work really well as a family here. The boys have always been like our sons,” Sabiri says, affectionately, and Abdullah nods in agreement. And despite the emptiness of the bare room, the strength of the ties among the four surviving family members in this home is overwhelming. Casting my mind back to the house that awaits the two boys when they get older, I can picture them sitting there just like their uncles now, but this time surrounded by bustling families of their own.