Aceh, Indonesia—I am sitting in the Aceh airport, and the plane is five hours late. The lobby is full of aid workers. The mood is somber. It is hard to describe exactly what I feel, not because I am numb or tired, but rather because I can't find the word to describe how I feel—distressed, horrified, humbled, and very, very sad. On the other hand, I am amazed at the Indonesians who have survived this terrible catastrophe, and are already showing signs of taking the first step toward recovery.

I am sitting across from a beautiful little boy, not much older than seven. He is licking a lollypop, swinging his legs back and forth like children do. Both of his legs have been amputated at the calf, and his little stumps are wrapped with bandages stained with blood. He is with very old grandparents whose pain is etched on their faces. I can only assume that this little boy is their only remaining family, and they are taking him back to Jakarta. My heart breaks.

There are bodies everywhere—on the side of the road and buried in the ruble. There are babies, children, men and women—all stripped of their clothing by the force of the wave—still waiting for someone to give them a proper burial. Meahwile, the cleanup work goes on. The roads are cleared, and the debris is removed. These were once bustling neighborhoods full of children playing, men having coffee in food stalls, and women going to market while traffic swerved around them. It is eerie.

It is eerie to walk down the road doing the job I was sent here to do—to assess the immediate animal welfare needs and assist the farm and companion animals so that the community can start rebuilding. The sad truth is, the people, their animals and their possessions are all gone.

No Shades of Gray

Everything here is either dead or alive—destroyed or normal. The contrasts abound, and there is nothing in between. There is no second chance or even hope to hang on to. Entire families are gone. The streets are littered with what used to be life. Everywhere you look there is wet soggy garbage.

The destroyed areas resemble a land-fill dump—automobiles, furniture, toys, clothes, shoes, and appliances all mixed with the putrid stench of human life decaying beneath debris stacked as high as three meters. Pictures of families proudly posing for weddings, birthdays, and with newborn babies stare out through the rubble. They are the only reminders that people once lived here.

No Discrimination Either

We arrive in the district of Kacamata Meuraxa, where only a few homes still stand in what was once a wealthy community. Dr. Wahyu points out one of the few remaining buildings, a large green house. Completely unexpected, he tells us that the structure is his father-in-law's home. Adi, our driver and volunteer, points across the street to a mango tree standing alone in an area flattened as far as the eye can see. He tells us that the tree is the only way he can tell where his house once stood. The tree used to be in his backyard. He has lost his entire family: mother, brothers, sisters, and other relatives. He is grateful that he still has his wife and daughter and, literally, the clothes on his back. We are speechless.

Wahyu asks if we would like to see where he buried his mother-in-law. He wants to pay his respects and to confirm that the body is really there—and that the whole scene was not just some nightmare. We follow him to where, a few days before, he found her body in the rubble. There was no place to bury her, but since the Muslim religion requires the dead be buried within 24 hours, he placed her in a shallow grave. Now he is worried that dogs may dig the body up. She rests next to a pool of contaminated water, which used to be her backyard. Her grave is a simple mound of mud with two pieces of scrap wood for markers.

Wahyu sobs. I cry. Another worker, Ray, has to take a long walk, and a fourth comforts Wahyu. We delay our work to clear our minds and let Wahyu find the best way to find closure. He returns to the house—it is no longer surreal, it is now his new reality, a fork in the road of his life. He comes back with photos of birthdays and weddings, and can only say "so many memories I have had here."

There is no discrimination between rich and poor, the have and the have-nots. They all came to rest side by side twisted in a pile which was once a community.

Indelible Images

There are some scenes I have witnessed in Aceh that I shall never forget. Among them:

• The 12,000-ton power plant ship that had been moved four kilometers inland. As I looked at the cleared path snaking its way through a destroyed neighborhood, I tried to imagine the force of the 50-foot wave that drove this ship inland. The ship just missed a Mosque as it relentlessly plowed onshore destroying everything in its path. Now it sits incongruously in the middle of a neighborhood like an elephant in the living room.

• The mosques still stand. It is a curious contemplation that we all come back to time and again: That amongst all the death and destruction that leveled hundreds of years of Indonesian history, almost all of the mosques still stand. Mostly unscathed or sustaining only minor damage, the mosques attract refugees seeking safety, shelter, food, and temporary comfort. A mosque on the beach stands alone, undamaged, where there once was a pier with boats and a bustling waterfront community.

• The teaching school and the student. We came to a teaching school which seemed to be a safe haven for the dogs who probably lived there prior to the tsunami. The pooches were in good condition, and I pictured them eating scraps from the lunches of students who would one day teach in this community. While we counted the dogs and assessed their condition, we peeked in a classroom door where students were sitting when the wave came. Desks were tossed around and the lesson remained on the chalk board. Books, writing tablets, shoes, and book bags littered the school yard. I tried to imagine what these young adults were feeling the moment the water came rushing in. I found my answer under a grass mat among the rubble. The face of a dead young woman, probably a student, stared up at me. Her face was twisted in fear and her mouth was wide open as if screaming for help.

• The clear line of demarcation. There is no transition in Banda Aceh. The tsunami damage ends catastrophically but neatly on one street. Banda Aceh is a wasteland to a certain point, with boats parked in the front yard of a house or in front of the Medan Hotel—and then on the next street, everything is normal, like a line has been drawn.

• The fish out of water. In the backyard of a typical home, a single fish came to rest six kilometers from the sea.

• The diary of a man named Raz who was in love with Tia. In a poem written on June 1, 1991, he talked of love, taking risks in life, and being willing to suffer the consequences.

• A stuffed doll holding a little pillow. Written on the pillow: good night.