Building a new hope

Azami Harun cuts a forlorn figure as he sits alone in front of his home.

A lit cigarette dangles between his weathered fingers as he stares at a mound of freshly mixed cement.

Azami is building a new attic above his single storey house. But his solo labour-of-love is interrupted by the intense afternoon heat, forcing the 51-year-old builder to take a much-needed break.

He sports a wiry frame but his measured, methodical movements betray his age. He slowly moves his cigarette away when two of his grandchildren come running up to him.

The huge flood of 2014 submerged this village of Kampung Manjur in Kuala Krai, Kelantan. It destroyed a large part of his house, specifically the attic, which was made of wood.

"Its all gone. The zinc roof, the wooden structure... destroyed. Luckily, the bottom half of the house was made of bricks. Or else it would have all been swept away," he tells us.

Azami and his wife have lived in this house for over 30 years. It sits on land inherited by his wife. They live here with two of their children, and three grandchildren.

While it's not uncommon for the village to be inundated during the monsoon season, the floods of December 2014 will be remembered as the worst in living memory to hit the east coast of the Peninsular.

Azami's wife was in the Holy Land while his children were away when disaster struck last year.

So he faced the devastation of the raging floodwaters alone.

Recounting the flood a year ago, he tells us that before heading to the mosque for Zohor prayers, he had driven a stake at the edge of the riverbank to measure the water level. Its something he does every year without fail during the rainy season.

"When I got back less than an hour later, the water had risen 7 feet. I told myself, ‘this is going to be a huge one'. Usually, the waters would only rise about two feet after three or four hours."

His train of thought is abruptly interrupted as his roaming grandchildren set upon him. He indulges the brood, and lifts one of them on to his lap.

Azami tells us that he was forced to seek shelter at a friend's house in a nearby village for almost two weeks, before moving into a tent that was set up on a hill about 500 metres from his house. There was no evacuation centre for the villagers of Kampung Manjur.

Hasni Hassan only learned about the fate of her husband and their home upon her return to Malaysia, four days before the New Year. She says that while in Mecca, she did not receive any news about their village specifially, only passing mention that the floods had returned.

"I wasn't too worried since we face the floods every year. It was only upon landing at KLIA did I finally get a chance to speak to him," she says.

Her eyes mist as she recalls hearing her husband tearfully telling her over the phone: "Our home is no more... our home is no more..."

Hasni wanted to make her way back home immediately. She wanted to be by her husband's side. To share his grief and face this test from God together.

But there was nothing she could do. All roads to Kelantan had been cut off by the floods.

She recalls the long, agonizing wait before she was finally able to return home on January 2nd, 2015. By then, the waters had completely subsided.

She says arriving home was bittersweet. While she was happy to be reunited, sadness quickly took over as she saw their home in near ruin.

"My heart sank looking at the state of the house. Knee-deep in mud. Almost everything destroyed.

"But no good will come from wallowing in self-pity. If we follow our emotions, then not a single thing will be done. Life has to go on," says Hasni.

Mud stains are still visible near the ceiling of the house. And many things in the store room are still covered in mud. We can see two motorcycles – a Yamaha RXZ and a Honda C70 – both caked in mud. Total losses.

Energized by the short rest, Azami returns to his work on rebuilding the attic. He aligns a few grey concrete bricks before cementing them in place.

Apart from working as a construction worker, he also taps rubber to make ends meet. His wife doesn't work. She takes care of their grandchildren at home.

"I began work on this attic in early October. The plan was to finish it by December, but I don't have enough material. I buy some whenever there's a bit of extra cash. So it will take a while," he sighs.

The attic is being rebuilt together with two bedrooms and a store room. The walls are done but there is still no roof.

"When I'm busy finishing up the house, I can't take on construction work for pay. And I can't tap rubber either since the monsoon season is here.

"But God works in mysterious ways. I'm lucky my children help out whenever they can. We can't rely on handouts. So we do what we can," he says.

As he speaks, his gaze keeps falling back on the Lebir River which runs behind the house.

Two of his daughters drowned in its milk-tea waters back in 2011. And each year, the same river threatens to swallow up the village.

The sky is a clear blue, with beautiful white clouds. But there is a promise of grey.

Looking through the windowless frame of the half-completed attic, we can see drift wood carried by the Lebir's strong current. It's waters are rising. It must be raining heavily somewhere upriver.

What's bound to happen next is all to familiar to Azami and folks from these parts.

And the thought of moving has crossed his mind. But his heart won't allow him to entertain such thoughts for too long.

"Where would I go? This is the only home my family and I have. So if there is a will, there is a way. The rest, we leave it to Him," says Azami as he lights another cigarette.