I live here. On a stilt house, handcrafted from bamboo, pounded into the mud. I sleep here. On the patterned rug, given to me by my mother. I lay there, every night trying and trying to fall asleep, but instead, I roll over. I roll over to check on my children. My baby, only 8 months old, and my 3 year old — the night is the only time he stays in one place. I look at the sores on their bodies. Small red ones on their legs and arms. I look outside. I see water. Water lined with trash. I look out beyond our small floating village. I see clean, clear ocean, sparkling.
I have not left my village since my 3 year old was born. I remember seeing him for the first time. That is when it hit me. I was going to be a mom. I was fifteen years old. I watched him scream and wiggle until he finally fell asleep in my arms. I saw women, with hijabs walking the bamboo street, right outside my room. They smiled inside, happy to have another baby in our small community.
Our village is Muslim, different from the other Christian villages surrounding mine. I wear a hijab every day and every night. Every night, I fall asleep with my son on my chest. His father sleeping right beside me. He is not my spouse. He is my son’s father, the father who is not willing to change the diapers. Now, I look over at him, asleep. He is a fisherman from Sulawesi. Twenty years ago a tsunami wrapped around his small village, along with some neighboring villages as well. It came and it left, and it did not bother to leave anything for anybody. But it brought my son’s father to me. Now I enjoy them, raising them with my mother’s help.
