WE are left without words, able only to fall silent. I see the sky darkened by heavy clouds, and rain pouring relentlessly for days. As far as my eyes can see, there is no light left in the sky. Everything feels dark. I witness the rain falling with merciless force. From the mountain highlands to the lowlands, from remote villages to national highways, I see Sumatra laid bare. Floods and landslides do more than submerge homes; they strip away hope, sever lives, and leave deep and lasting trauma for thousands of people.
I am a citizen born and raised in Aceh. Throughout my lifetime, I have never witnessed a flood disaster of this magnitude. Because of this, a question continues to weigh heavily on my mind: where is the government? Why has Aceh, along with other affected provinces, not yet been officially declared a national disaster zone?
I see communities in Aceh, North Sumatra, and West Sumatra facing the same harsh reality: homes swept away, farmland destroyed, access cut off, and futures suddenly cast into darkness. I witness rivers overflowing with mud, uprooted trees, and the remnants of people’s lives. Landslides swallow roads, block evacuation routes, and claim human lives. To me, this is no longer a local incident, nor a seasonal misfortune. It is a large-scale humanitarian tragedy.
I understand that the number of fatalities alone does not define the scale of a disaster. Yet every life lost is a clear alarm for the state. I see children losing their parents, the elderly losing shelter, and mothers enduring prolonged anxiety in evacuation camps. I know they sleep in emergency tents, on thin mats, with limited supplies and constant threats of disease. Psychological trauma—often absent from official statistics—will persist long after the floodwaters recede, and I am convinced that such wounds will not heal easily.
Beyond that, I observe that the affected areas extend far beyond a single district or province. Floods and landslides strike almost simultaneously across regions, severing economic corridors, damaging vital infrastructure, and paralyzing daily life. I see national roads submerged, bridges destroyed, and aid distribution delayed. I know that farmland, the backbone of many livelihoods, has been submerged, signaling an impending grassroots economic crisis.
Mass displacement further underscores the severity of this disaster. I see thousands of people forced to abandon their homes without certainty of return. Many have lost not only shelter but also their livelihoods. I know fishermen can no longer go to sea, farmers face total crop failure, and small traders have lost their goods. To me, this disaster does not merely destroy the present; it erases the future.
In this context, I believe the designation of a National Disaster is both relevant and urgent. It is not about labels, nor political theatrics, but about humanitarian justice. I am convinced that when the scale of a disaster exceeds local capacity—financially, logistically, and institutionally—the state has an obligation to respond fully, decisively, and without hesitation.
I recognize that disaster response in Sumatra involves many actors: local governments, volunteers, the military, police, and humanitarian organizations. However, I firmly believe that their collective efforts should not serve as an excuse for delaying a critical national decision. On the contrary, this collective response demonstrates that the disaster is simply too vast to be addressed in fragments.
I am convinced that declaring a National Disaster would unlock broader access to emergency funds, accelerate the construction of temporary and permanent housing, and enable more structured social and economic recovery. More importantly, I see this step as a means of establishing unified national command, ensuring that responses are coordinated and that victims are not left behind.
There is also a moral dimension that, in my view, cannot be ignored. The state should not only be present when inaugurating projects or celebrating achievements, but especially when its people are brought to their knees. In evacuation camps across Sumatra, I see people who do not demand luxury. They ask only to be heard, protected, and reassured that their suffering is recognized as a national concern, not merely a regional problem.
If a disaster of this magnitude does not merit national status, then I must ask: what kind of tragedy will? Must we wait for more lives to be lost? Must we wait for total devastation? Or must we wait until the cries of the people grow even louder?
I see Sumatra today as a stark reflection of our vulnerability to climate crisis, environmental degradation, and spatial planning that too often neglects human safety. Above all, however, I see this moment as a test of the nation’s conscience. Declaring this disaster a National Disaster is not a sign of weakness; it is a declaration of responsibility.
The waters may recede, and the mud may dry, but I am certain that humanitarian wounds will endure if the state chooses silence. It is time for the nation to speak with clarity and conviction. I want to believe that Sumatra is not alone. This is a national disaster. This is our shared responsibility.