BANDA ACEH, Indonesia – The first night, when she was on the mountain, Sri Nurlita cried. The 10-year-old wept for her parents, who were taken by the “big water” that swept through her village, for the way they used to stroke her head at night until she fell asleep.
But two weeks after the tsunami triggered by an earthquake killed not only her mother and father but also seven of her 12 brothers and sisters, Sri said: “I don’t cry anymore.”
“I’m sad, but I can’t do anything,” she said, her chestnut eyes luminous and a bare foot swinging back and forth on a bunk bed in her new home, Babun Najah, an Islamic boarding school a half mile from a relief camp for tsunami survivors.
“In the name of God, the most powerful,” she prayed in Arabic in a sweet high voice, remembering the way her father taught her the Quran. Her voice trailed off, her eyes misted and she looked away.
“When I pray, I remember my parents,” she said, “and after I pray, I feel better.”
The United Nations reports that the tsunami affected 1.5 million children, many of whom, like Sri, lost one or both parents.
Teachers at the school said they had heard reports that child traffickers were taking advantage of the chaos. To prevent smuggling, the teachers decided to open up space in their dormitory for girls who had lost their families or whose parents wanted them to stay in a safer environment than a relief camp set up on the outskirts of town.
UNICEF, the U.N. children’s agency, has confirmed at least one case of trafficking, and Indonesian authorities are looking into dozens of similar allegations.
Until Friday, Sri and 71 other girls had taken refuge at the muddy relief camp, where several thousand people were jammed into sweltering tents made of tarps on wooden stakes. One tent housed 164 family members.
The girls then moved to the school. On their first night there, they refused to sleep in the dormitory. They preferred the unfinished mosque, with half-built walls and a corrugated metal roof. They slept on mats on the cement floor, the cool night air breezing through.
“They’re afraid of earthquakes,” said Muzakir, 29, a teacher who lives at the school.
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