[Upon the invitation of the International Migrants (IOM), The Jakarta Post's Chisato Hara days observing developments in the tsunami-devastated province, including the hand over of shelters to displaced people in Tingkeum, Banda Aceh.]

Tasya is six months old, perhaps a little underdeveloped for her age, but bright-eyed and quick to smile – even at strangers.

"She is a good baby. She was about two months old when the tsunami came," said her grandmother, Zabaidah. "A week before, she started crying non-stop... We took her to the doctor, but nothing was wrong with her. A couple of days before the tsunami, she suddenly stopped crying. Then the tsunami came. She knew – the baby knew."

Tasya's brother, Athafayyath, is three and a half and just as welcoming, introducing toy after toy – all donations: "This is a lion. This is a boat." From somewhere, he gets a bucket, fills it with murky water and releases the wind-up boat with a single passenger in it – a ping-pong ball. Who is the ping-pong ball? "Fayyath," he grinned.

Inside their hut made of salvaged wooden panels, their 28-year-old mother, Zuhrasafita – Ira for short – is cooking breakfast. "Please have some. It's just fried fish in chili sauce – Acehnese food. I thought maybe you haven't had any breakfast, you were out here so early." The rice steaming in a dented pot is food aid; the fish and spices were bought with money her husband, Muammar Ma'ruf, 37, who has electricity, construction and wood-working skills, had earned from the odd jobs he goes out to find every day.

Ira's family is just one of nine camping on the outskirts of Tingkeum village in Daruimalah, Aceh Besar regency, waiting to move into the first mobile shelters provided by the International Organization for Migration (IOM) under its Transitional Shelter Project. In Tingkeum, 107 families left homeless by the tsunami of Dec. 26 will be given new homes.

The nine families comprise 75 internally displaced people (IDPs) and represent four villages – Lamno, Lamlumpu, Pungai Blangcut and Lagun, all coastal villages decimated in the disaster and have either a direct or indirect familial connection with Tingkeum village, which has a population of about 100.

The villagers are active participants in the project, and not only have they agreed to host the IDP families, but they have also willingly welcomed the families into their community. This acceptance and willingness of the host community is a key criterion of the project.

Pak Ajis, a Tingkeum villager, is housing five relatives from Uleulhe on the northern coast. "Some have lost wives, others husbands, still others have been orphaned. Many [here] arrived four or five days after the tsunami, some immediately afterward, and the [emergency] tents didn't arrive until about nine days after [the tsunami]. Before that, the villagers gathered together plastic tarps and helped them settle onto an open plot. We're happy to be able to help. We're happy to have them here. They are family."

Ira's brother, Eddy Saputra, formerly a construction worker, phrases the same sentiment differently: "Kami saudara tsunami (We are 'tsunami family')." The shelters belong to the IDP families, and the units are now configured into two three-meter-by-four-meter rooms and a living area; they can also be disassembled, moved to a different site and reconfigured into single-room units. The units are wired for electricity and have private toilet/bathing facilities, as well as space for a kitchen.

"We don't know what these families will decide to do over the next two years – they might stay, they might try to get back to their original villages – so the shelters were designed to be flexible [mobile]," said IOM shelter project manager Graeme Rapley. They are also earthquake-proof, as was tested and proven during a recent 6.7-magnitude tremor.

The land for the settlement in Tingkeum was donated to the project through the local Ministry of Public Works office by villager Umardani, and by agreement, the IDP families may live there for at least the next two years. Any further extension of their stay is to be decided in discussion with the local government and the village community.

The morning of moving day, the camp is not bustling with preparatory activities; instead, its residents are going about at a routine-like pace, mending fishing nets, cooking breakfast and bathing, and the children are playing in the narrow "alleys" between tents. Visiting from tent to tent, each family offers a warm welcome, opening their homes, introducing themselves. They answer sensitive questions graciously, and the overall sense is that they want to tell their tales.

Pak Yatim is an elderly gentleman, formerly a fisherman of Lagun, Aceh Jaya, like many of the men in the camp. Asked about the move, his slow smile widens into a broad grin that crinkles the sun-wizened features of his face. "About 10 people live in this tent, including a few babes, my younger sister and brother, my wife. We will be happy to have a proper home again."

Inside the tent – assembled from blue plastic tarp and canvas sheets stamped with UNHCR and UNICEF logos over a slim wooden frame – is a ramshackle of cartons stuffed with secondhand clothing and toys, and sleeping mats with bedsheets of varying designs lie directly on the bare earth. One corner holds a gas burner propped on a wooden crate and a small assortment of beaten-up pots and pans. The tent is stuffy, and it is easy to imagine how it would heat up during the day or from cooking, and how the chill would creep in during the night.

Yatim's wife suddenly pops her head from around a flap and pipes up, her eyes darting here and there, yet intensely focused at the same time: "What about doctors? What about formula milk for the baby? We have one here who lost his entire family. And food? Water? If there's a well [at the shelters], how many are there? If it's only one, how will it provide for more than 100 people? Will the new house have a kitchen? Or space for a kitchen? And beds? Will we have beds? The little ones catch a chill from sleeping directly on the ground. Will we have a roof? The tents leak when it rains." And she is off before she can give her name, fussing through a pile of clothing.

"My wife is a little worried about moving," her husband said apologetically.

And it is no wonder. These and thousands of other families who survived the tsunami – regency head Zainin Aziz estimates up to 94,000 IDPs in Aceh Besar alone – have had to face so many drastic changes in their lives, the least of which was losing everything they ever owned. The "black water", as they call the tsunami, swept away life as they knew it. Many then journeyed days on foot to reach safety, carrying only what they wore and traveling with whatever family they could locate, in some cases taking in orphans on the way.

Suwardi, a fisherman and construction worker in his 30s, lived 100 meters from the sea in Lagun. He grabbed his family – a wife and two children – when the sea rose, but lost everyone. He shares his tent with his sister-in-law, Nur Akmal, her two children – one an infant – and a cousin's orphaned child.

Cut Ayah is a fisherman from Pungai Blangcut – he spells it out and was carried three kilometers inland by the water "into the hills". He grabbed his wife Rostiawati, five months pregnant at the time, and his 12-year-old son Tuku Rafdi and ran. His daugher Defi Rosita, 21, was away at university and so lived. His wife was lost in the waves, and Rafdi was torn from his grasp – but got caught in a tree and survived.

"Several people found [Rafdi] and kept him safe. I reached him a few days later... he wouldn't move. He just sat and kept waiting for his mother to come for him," said Cut Ayah, who speaks mostly with his eyes closed, especially at points that touch on his late wife and unborn child.

Both father and son sustained gashes on their legs from being "rolled by the black water" – the wounds have healed, treated by emergency medical workers, but Cut Ayah has difficulty bending his right leg. They live with Ferdi Setiawan, 10, the son of Rostiawati's younger sister Desi Marlini, who was also lost, and Ferdi's father Muhammad Ali. Like the boxer? "Yes," smiled Cut Ayah. "Like the boxer."

Rafdi is sitting nearby on a coconut tree log with his cousin, smiling shyly, and gets up to show the discolored scars that zig-zag up both legs. Ira's father, Pak Sumino, 65, is originally from Madiun, Central Java, and stowed away on a ship from Tanjung Priok, Jakarta, when he was 17, following his Coast Guard brother to Aceh. He also lived in Pungai Blangcut, and while he, wife Zabaidah, Ira, her children and son Eddy survived, he lost his four other children in Uleulhe, and the whereabouts of two grandchildren are unknown; he presumes them to be lost.

More than three months since the tsunami, the memories are still fresh and survival is foremost in his mind: "If we're given food, we eat; if we're told we can move, we move." He pauses. "But now we can laugh. Before, we couldn't think, couldn't chat or joke amongst ourselves." Asked how he feels about moving, he replied, "Alhamdulillah aja [It's God's will, is all]."

Ira worked as a secretary at an economics university in her life before the tsunami, and speaks a little English – of which she is teaching Fayyath the basics. The university, she said, "is no more. It's completely gone." "We appreciate everything that has been provided for us, these clothes I'm wearing, rice, shelter... but what concerns us is the future... sending our children to school, having work to support ourselves." As a large IOM truck arrives at the camp to transport the families' belongings, she excuses herself to take a bath and get ready to move into her new home.

The shelter settlement is located on the far end of Tingkeum next to a small stream and along the village's main road. A wide gravel pathway lined with potted plants leads up to the numbered shelters, and on each door is a pink placard indicating the head of household and their dependents who will live there. Roped, coconut-log "fences" painted white mark the boundary of the settlement, as well as cordon off the three village graveyards in the area.

There is a well in a rear corner of the settlement; on the opposite end are two "open-bottom" septic tanks buried in the ground and sealed with concrete – one for "grey" water, such as dish- and laundry water, the other for "black" water, or sewage.

While bed mattresses were not part of the original shelter contract, IOM Banda Aceh received approval for their procurement from its Jakarta headquarters, purchased and delivered them within 24 hours after the families identified the need.

Even as the families move in, dozens of construction workers in IOM T-shirts, hardhats and rubber boots – all recruited locally – are busy building across the road. There, foundations for an additional 32 units have been excavated, another site for 55 units is being marked and laid out, and concrete panels and cement tiles are stacked. Another site slightly apart from the main settlement has been located for the remaining 11 units, so that all 107 IDP families in Tingkeum will be accommodated.

"It is essential that we maintain the cohesiveness of previous communities," said IOM Indonesia Mission head Stephen Cook during the symbolic handover ceremony that afternoon.

The families are visibly more relaxed as they sit together under a marquee erected for the event, and their faces emit a quiet radiance. The women have donned clean, white head-scarves for the occasion, and several IDP boys are playing in the vicinity with village children.

"I'm happy. Everyone is happy. My wife is happy," said Yatim, who is wearing a fresh shirt. Eddy seconds him: "We are happy beyond belief." Cut Ayah is sitting with Rafdi, and his face is lit up by a smile. "We lost everything... now I can be proud [as the head of a household]. I have a house again, a place for my family to stay together. It is very important that we stay together, and now we can." "I am so happy. We are all so happy. We have homes again. We are so grateful to the IOM, the regency head, the district head, the provincial government, the people of Tingkeum, the donors and everyone else who made this possible," said Ira after moving, then became uncharacteristically solemn.

"I don't mean to sound ungrateful in any way, but we still need jobs. We can't keep receiving donations for the rest of our lives. We can't continue to live on rations... we want our children to have better lives than us. We want to live in dignity," she said, then burst into tears.

Two days later, the families have settled down somewhat in their new homes.

Samsinar, 41, lost her husband, a child and her only grandchild, and is living in a shelter with four surviving children and son-in-law Bahrum, whose younger brother is married to a Tingkeum villager. She has covered the concrete floor tiles with a vinyl sheet in a gay, green pattern, and has set up her kitchen with racks provided by Bahrum's in-laws in Tingkeum. Bahrum has found construction work in Banda Aceh and brings home salvaged wood and other recyclable material when he can.

"Today, someone gave us an old wardrobe they'd thrown out, so this place will look more like home." Just as Samsinar finishes speaking, a small rickety truck backs up outside with the wardrobe, and Bahrum hops down with fellow workers to unload it. "Come, come! I'll put on some tea."

Villager Salbia is visiting a shelter where her younger sister Fatimah's husband, 45-year-old Samsuddin, his mother Khatijah and eight nieces and nephews – the youngest of whom is two years – live. Fatimah, 35, and her eldest daughter Safrida, 19, were lost. Samsuddin, a farmer, is out working a field in Lhoknga, the same job he had before, and won't return until late in the evening.

One of Salbia's nephews, 17-year-old Julaidi, is one-half of a twin with niece Julaida. He has made some friends in the village, and is beaming: He must share a room with several siblings, but he is happy because he can sleep in a room again.

"We can remain a family," Salbia said. "But there's not enough water, no electricity. The children can't study at night... if we only had a street lamp out front, it would make a difference." The units are wired for electricity, but sourcing power is another matter – not all houses in Tingkeum have electricity and who would pay the bills? Certainly, conditions are not perfect, and the most common worry in the settlement is that there is not enough water. Due to the unusually high clay content of the soil, the well does not fill with water fast enough to keep up with the consumption rate of 75 people.

IOM water/sanitation engineer Rob Garlick has identified a location for a second well, and his team will break ground on it after the weekend. In the meantime, many residents are bathing at the house of a village relative and have set out plastic pails and buckets to collect rainwater – just in case.

The high clay content also presents another challenge: the possibility of a slow ground absorption rate of residual liquid from the septic system. In anticipation, Garlick and his team are completing a back-up filtering mechanism to aid absorption – a gravel pit designed to catch excess residual water from the grey water tank through a perforated pipe grid. As a further precaution, a second back-up system is being installed – a run-off pipe from the gravel pit to the stream.

"It's a learning process... and every site is different," said Garlick. The IOM has 708 other units in various stages of planning and development in Aceh Besar, and a total commitment of 11,000 units across the province.

As Cut Ayah said of his new house, "It is a start. A step at a time." Meanwhile, Ira has placed woven mats on the floor, set up the kitchen and hung makeshift curtains in the windows, but she is a little out of sorts today – Fayyath is being naughty and won't take his nap, she is trying to give Tasya her bath, and she wants to fold and store a pile of clothes that has arrived. Ma'ruf is out looking for work.

"Water is a problem," she sighed, a sleepy Tasya in her arms."We just have to be patient a little while longer." Then she added, "Please, come in. Won't you have some tea?"