What is life like under the asphyxiating pall created by the burning forests of Sumatra? Australian radio and television journalist Andrea Thomson visited the town of Jambi, in the center of the island. From inside the ring of fire, she filed this eyewitness report:
Juliana lies motionless on a sticky batik sheet in an overcrowded hospital. Her anxious mother stands beside her, weeping, telling me that today, for the first time, she has begun to worry that her daughter might not recover. Trails of acrid smoke swirl in through an open window, only centimeters from Juliana's face. The air is both thick and still, and the temperature inside is in the high 30s, despite the fact it is almost dusk. An electric fan stands unused on a nearby bench, the plug removed from an apparently broken socket. In the next room, an elderly man with sunken cheeks gasps for breath as the tiny blue air-filter he is attached to bubbles and spits.
This suffering is the human face of a disaster the Indonesian government has acknowledged, but, inexplicably, still refuses to treat with the urgency it so clearly needs.
On my last morning in Jambi, I decide to visit the health clinic. On the way, my driver, Zulfan, explains how the smoke has disrupted his life: "This morning, like most mornings, I wake with a headache. In my stomach I feel very strange, and my eyes, they sting." I ask him how long he thinks Jambi can go on like this. He turns to me with a pained look. "Jambi cannot handle these things. This has gone on too long. We have not seen the sun for more than a month. We are suffocating."
We arrive at the clinic as a stream of distressed mothers comes down the outdoor stairs, their small pouches stuffed with unknown medicines for their families at home. Inside, in a stifling waiting room, the smoke once again hangs in the air. Parents clutching babies in sarong slings line the grubby walls. Young children cough and mutter, clutching handkerchiefs to their faces. One child continuously spits mucous into a dirty plastic bucket beside him on the floor. Everyone wants to see a doctor. Everyone wants an answer.
Zulfan dips into my backpack and hands me a box of surgical face masks we had brought from Jakarta. As I begin handing them out to the smallest children near me, consternation breaks out. Women and men grab my clothes and hands, almost pulling me off my feet. They grip my shoulder tightly, crying out in desperation: "Please, me. I want." Within seconds, the cardboard box is empty and lies crushed on the floor. I explain that I am sorry. That I wish I had more. I begin to cry with frustration.
How can the outside world understand what is facing the people of Jambi? No matter how heavy the air becomes, no matter how seemingly impossible the next breath, there is no escape from the smoke. Until the monsoon rains break later this year &150; maybe not even until next year &150; the lives of the young, the sick and the elderly will be at risk this way. Such is the reality of life at the center of one of the world's most senseless man-made catastrophes.