I Tied a Rope So They Could Find My Body — A Writing Challenge WT-15

When the Tamiang River swallowed my village in Aceh, Indonesia, on the northern tip of Sumatra, I didn’t tie myself to survive. I tied myself so my children would have a body to bury if the flood carried me away.

Massive tree trunks and debris cover what remains of a neighborhood in Kota Lintang Village, Aceh Tamiang, Indonesia, after catastrophic flooding. It was here that Murni made an unimaginable decision — tying a rope around her waist, not to survive, but so her children could find her body if the river carried her away. (Photo courtesy of local residents.)

Part One — The Morning I Chose the Rope

CRASH!

The sound ripped Murni awake.

Her eyes flew open.

For a few seconds, she stared at the dark wooden ceiling above her.

“What was that?” she whispered.

She assumed it was the rain.

It had been raining for two straight days, and it was still falling.

The steady drumming on the tin roof had almost become background noise.

But this sound was different.

Heavier.

Deeper.

As if something enormous was moving outside.

It came from behind her house.

From the Tamiang River.

The rumble grew louder.

Closer.

Without thinking, Murni threw off her blanket and climbed out of bed.

Her bare feet landed on the cold wooden floor.

She didn’t even stop to slip on her sandals.

Something felt wrong.

The morning light never came.

Dark clouds smothered the sky.

By this hour, sunlight would normally seep through the cracks in the old wooden walls.

Not today.

For decades, Murni had fallen asleep to the sound of the Tamiang River.

It had always been part of her life.

After her husband died twenty years earlier, she raised her children alone in this modest wooden house, built only a few meters from the riverbank.

It was the house where her children grew up.

The house where she learned to live with grief.

The house where she became both mother and father.

But this morning…

The river no longer sounded familiar.

It sounded hungry.

CRASH!

The whole house lurched beneath her feet.

Murni froze.

Her heart pounded.

She reached for the front door.

For one brief moment, she couldn’t bring herself to open it.

Then…

She slowly pulled it open.

Cold air rushed inside.

Rain splashed across her face.

Her breath caught.

Her yard was gone.

Where the yard had been, there was only rushing brown water.

It swallowed every corner of the property.

Tree trunks drifted past in the current.

Some slammed into one another.

Others spun wildly before disappearing downstream.

Then one of them crashed into the wooden pillar beneath her house.

CRASH!

The whole house trembled.

Murni grabbed the doorframe to steady herself.

She had never seen the Tamiang River like this.

Never.

The water kept climbing.

Within minutes, it surged over the front steps.

Across the floor.

Over her ankles.

Up to her calves.

Then slowly toward her knees.

Outside, logs as thick as a man’s thigh kept hammering the wooden pillars.

Each impact sounded louder than the last.

Murni couldn’t swim.

The memory returned without warning.

She was a young girl again.

Laughing with friends in the Tamiang River.

Then suddenly…

Something wrapped itself around her leg beneath the water.

The harder she struggled, the deeper she sank.

She almost drowned before someone finally pulled her free.

She never entered the river again.

Not even to wash her feet.

Now that same fear stood before her once more.

She stared at the rising water.

Every instinct told her she had to do something.

Before it was too late.

Her eyes darted across the room.

A wardrobe.

A chair.

A table.

Some had already begun to float.

Then they stopped.

On a coil of coarse coir rope hanging from a nail.

She recognized it immediately.

She had bought it only a few days earlier at the Kuala Simpang Public Market.

She had planned to use it as a clothesline beside the house.

The old clothesline had finally rotted away after years under the sun and rain.

The night before, she had imagined putting up the new one as soon as the weather cleared.

But the rain never stopped.

The clothesline was never built.

The water kept climbing.

The logs kept crashing into the house.

Then another memory surfaced.

Only two days earlier, the whole village had been talking about an elderly woman swept away by the flood.

By that morning…

Her body still hadn’t been found.

The image of that woman flashed through Murni’s mind.

Her chest tightened.

“If the river chooses me…”

She couldn’t finish the thought.

Instead…

She saw her children’s faces.

What if they searched for her…

For days…

And never found her?

She looked back at the rope.

Then at the wooden pillar.

Then at the floodwater.

Only one thought remained.

“If the flood carries me away… at least my children will be able to find my body.”

Her trembling hands reached for the rope.

She closed her eyes.

Her chest rose and fell.

“Ya Allah…” she whispered.

Slowly, she wrapped the rope around her waist.

She tied the other end around one of the wooden pillars supporting the house.

The first knot slipped loose.

She tried again.

Her hands refused to stop shaking.

Fear had reached the tips of her fingers.

A knot that normally took only seconds suddenly felt impossible.

The water kept climbing.

The logs kept striking the house.

Finally…

The knot held.

Murni stood in silence, staring at the flood beyond her doorway.

For the first time in her life…

She truly believed death might arrive that morning.

Part Two — The Fewest Steps of My Life

Time lost all meaning.

Murni had no idea how long she had been standing there, the coir rope still cinched tightly around her waist.

She knew only one thing.

The water kept climbing.

Slowly.

Relentlessly.

The roar of the Tamiang River swallowed every other sound.

Massive logs hammered against the wooden pillars beneath the house.

Each collision sent another violent shudder through the floor.

Now and then she heard people crying for help.

Their voices rose above the flood for only a heartbeat…

Before the river swallowed them whole.

No one could reach anyone.

Everyone was trying to survive their own small corner of the flood.

The current inside the house grew stronger.

The wardrobe rocked from side to side.

Chairs drifted aimlessly through the room.

Pots and pans clanged together before floating away.

The rushing water tugged at her legs.

Again.

And again.

But the rope still held her.

For now.

She had no idea how much longer it would.

Then…

Above the river.

Above the crashing timber.

She heard it.

“Mamak!”

Her breath caught.

She knew that voice.

“Mamak!”

The second call came louder.

Still nearly swallowed by the river…

But unmistakably her daughter’s voice.

Murni looked up.

Through the second-floor window of the neighboring house, Nuraini was waving both arms.

Their homes stood only a few meters apart.

On any ordinary morning…

It would have taken less than ten seconds to walk across.

Now…

A raging river lay between them.

“Mamak! Catch the rope!”

One of the men beside Nuraini swung a long rescue rope toward her.

The first throw fell short.

The flood caught it instantly…

And swept it away.

“Again!”

The men pulled it back.

This time, they threw harder.

The rope sailed farther.

But the knotted end caught between Murni’s doorframe and the window frame.

She moved.

Slowly.

Carefully.

The current shoved against her legs with every step.

Stretching as far as she could…

Her trembling fingers finally closed around the rope.

She grabbed it with everything she had.

Then came the hardest decision yet.

She had to let go of the very rope she had tied only moments earlier…

The rope she believed would help her children find her body.

She had to let go of the very rope she had tied only moments earlier…

The rope she believed would help her children find her body.

Her shaking hands reached for the dead knot securing the coir rope to the wooden pillar.

She pulled.

Nothing.

She tried again.

Still nothing.

The rain had soaked the fibers until the knot felt as hard as wood.

Fear tightened across her chest.

She pulled harder.

Nothing.

Not even a single strand moved.

Her breathing grew faster.

The river kept climbing.

Every second mattered.

Her eyes darted frantically around the room.

She needed something sharp.

Then she looked toward the wall.

The old klewang — a traditional Indonesian blade that had belonged to her late husband — was gone.

Only then did she remember.

Three months earlier, her eldest son had borrowed it and taken it home.

A wave of despair washed over her.

“No…”

The word barely escaped her lips.

She searched again.

Faster this time.

Then she saw it.

A toolbox drifting across the room.

Still clutching the rescue rope with one hand, she reached for the floating box with the other.

It slipped away.

The current carried it just beyond her fingertips.

She lunged again.

This time…

She caught it.

She pulled the box closer.

Her fingers searched blindly through the water inside.

A wrench.

A screwdriver.

Rusted nails.

Then…

A small utility knife.

For the first time that morning…

Hope.

She closed her eyes.

Just for a heartbeat.

“Alhamdulillah…”

Carefully…

She pressed the tiny blade against the soaked knot.

One strand snapped.

Then another.

The fibers slowly began to loosen.

Not quickly.

Not easily.

Just enough.

She kept cutting.

Patiently.

Desperately.

Until finally…

The knot released the wooden pillar.

The rope remained tied securely around her waist.

She tightened her grip on the rescue rope.

Drew one long breath.

Then she looked back.

At the house she and her husband had built together.

The house where they had raised their children.

The house that had sheltered two decades of memories.

The house she might never enter again.

She said nothing.

There was nothing left to say.

Only one choice remained.

Murni stepped into the current.

Part Three — The Rope Still Tied to My Home

The river hit her with terrifying force.

For one heart-stopping moment, Murni thought it would sweep her off her feet.

She tightened both hands around the rescue rope.

“Slowly, Mak!”

Nuraini’s voice rose above the roar of the river.

Murni nodded.

One careful step.

Then another.

The current shoved against her legs as though it had a will of its own.

Above her, the men on the second floor held the rope as tightly as they could.

No one dared pull too hard.

If Murni lost her footing…

The river would decide the rest.

The distance between the two houses was only a few meters.

She had crossed it countless times over the years.

Today…

It felt longer than her entire life.

One step.

Another.

Another.

Every breath demanded courage.

Every step felt borrowed.

Then…

At last…

Her foot found the first wooden stair leading to Nuraini’s second floor.

Relief rushed through her so suddenly that her knees almost buckled.

The river still tugged at her from behind.

Hands reached down.

One caught her arm.

Another gripped her shoulder.

Together they pulled her onto the wooden floor.

The moment both feet were safely inside…

Her legs simply gave way.

She collapsed into her daughter’s arms.

Her whole body trembled uncontrollably.

She couldn’t stop shaking.

Nuraini held her tightly.

Neither of them spoke.

There were no words large enough for what they had just survived.

The silence between them said everything.

Only after several long minutes did Murni turn toward the window.

She searched for the house she had just left behind.

It was still standing.

But only barely.

The floodwater continued to climb around it.

Another meter…

And even the roof would disappear beneath the river.

Through the open window, she could still see the short length of coir rope she had cut free.

One end remained tied to the wooden pillar.

She stared at it.

Longer than she realized.

Then, almost too softly to hear…

“Alhamdulillah…”

“That rope was never used to find my body.”

She closed her eyes.

For the first time since the flood began…

She allowed herself to breathe.

Outside…

The rain kept falling.

Dark clouds still smothered the morning sky.

The Tamiang River showed no sign of slowing.

Inside the house, no one celebrated.

No one believed they were safe.

They had escaped the current.

But not the flood.

The river had spared them.

For now.

Deep down…

Every person in that house already understood.

The hardest part of surviving the flood…

Had only just begun.

Author’s Note

This story is based on true events from the catastrophic hydrometeorological disaster that struck Sumatra, Indonesia, in November 2025. Murni’s story is drawn from the lived experiences of survivors whose courage and resilience continue to inspire long after the floodwaters receded.

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