Sumatra is drowning, and I’m supposed to sit here pretending everything’s normal.
Aceh to Padang looks like God spilled a bucket of muddy water across the map, and the government’s response is basically a yawn. The earth is literally swallowing people whole — swallowing homes, swallowing animals, swallowing family histories.
In Tapanuli, the hills didn’t just collapse — they avalanched like they’d been waiting decades for this very moment, burying families in their sleep like tucking them into a grave they never asked for.
Bridges snapped like bones. Entire villages disappeared overnight.
Flores is coughing volcanic ash again, as if the land itself is screaming, “Wake up, idiots, look what you’ve done.”
Thousands are running for their lives, barefoot, coughing, terrified, carrying children who don’t even know what they’re running from.
And while people cling to trees to avoid being washed away, the officials in crisp shirts are clinging to their talking points.
The national agencies?
Overworked, underfunded, disorganized — left scrambling in the dark, literally, because of blackouts. Some towns are entirely cut off by broken bridges and landslides, people are stuck between death and incompetence.
Tapanuli?
Cut off.
Bridges broken.
Roads gone.
Signal dead.
But hey — at least the ministers got some great lighting for their gala tonight.
And what does Jakarta say?
What does the palace with its polished marble floors declare?
“Deferred National Disaster Status.”
Deferred.
Deferred.
Deferred.
Indonesia is crumbling like stale bread, and they can’t be bothered to stamp a damn document.
The same crowd who rammed through a constitutional change in 24 hours — literally overnight, faster than your online shop order — just to make sure a very specific 36-year-old princeling could be Vice President…
These people suddenly develop “procedural caution” when dozens die?
Give me a break.
They send prayers like expired band-aids.
They send a Hercules plane for the optics — “Look, we care!” Click, post, done.
They send emotionless statements clearly written by someone who has never seen a muddy village or a grieving mother in their life.
But they refuse to call it what it is:
A national tragedy.
A full-blown catastrophe.
A symptom of their failure.
“We don’t talk about this back home.
Lock me up if I talk about this back home.”
Hated in the Nation – Hindia
My timeline feels like a digital mass grave.
Roofs floating.
Cars swallowed.
Kids missing.
People tagging emergency accounts that might as well be decorative wallpaper.
“Admin will reply tomorrow.”
Tomorrow???
People are LITERALLY dying TODAY.
And while this country is busy drowning, burning, collapsing, exploding, and suffocating…
You know what the government does care about?
12%.
Twelve percent of your money.
Twelve percent of your life force.
Twelve percent of the oxygen you breathe.
They tax your food.
Your rides.
Your electricity.
Your sadness.
Your existence.
If they could tax your blood, they would.
They tax our lives and sell it back as “innovation.”
And why?
Because of “Golden Indonesia 2045.”
Golden for whom?
For the women in West Sumatra washing mud off of their children’s corpses?
For villagers in Lewotobi breathing volcanic poison because evacuation notices came late?
For school kids vomiting after eating MBG meals that were supposedly “healthy”?
For those innocents that are now dead from the demonstration?
For the ones getting jailed for being honest?
Let’s be real.
There’s nothing golden about 15,000 children getting sick because someone pocketed the nutrition budget and replaced it with God-knows-what mystery kitchen scraps.
But oh, the dynasty shines golden.
The fufufafa prince glisten in gold-plated privilege.
The cronies running ghost kitchens and fake vendors glow under fluorescent corruption.
The officials cutting ribbons for pointless vanity projects sparkle brighter than the candles on a prayer table in a disaster zone.
“Mistreated some of us back home.
Colonized what’s left in the West back home.”
Hated in the Nation – Hindia
Colonized — that’s the right word.
The only thing missing is the Dutch accent.
They extract everything — land, money, dignity — then say we’re “lazy” or “complain too much” when we ask where the funds went.
They mismanage forests, then act surprised when entire districts turn into swimming pools.
They legalize policies that kill youth with methanol poisoning because legal alcohol is priced like a luxury perfume.
And when you dare to speak about it? Good luck, babe
on getting f-ed up.
“Cautious of how I use my phone. Fearful of how I set my tone.”
Hated in the Nation – Hindia
Ah yes, the UU ITE guillotine.
Hanging above every tweet, every post, every voice note.
You criticize the government? Congrats, now you’re “spreading hoaxes.”
You point out hypocrisy? Shadowban.
You question why abandoned victims aren’t receiving aid? “Stop provoking.”
and God Bless Sibiru’s writing team and others who bravely cook the government.
But something snapped this month.
Not just in me — in everyone.
A collective “you know what? NO.”
A national switch-flip from fear to disgust.
We watch them shake hands at summits while Tapanuli screams for help.
We watch them cut ribbons for vanity projects while peatlands burn like hell’s backyard.
We watch them smile like wax figures while poisoning children and blaming the teachers.
The fear is evaporating.
Now it’s just contempt.
A cold, steady, unshakeable contempt for a ruling class that treats us like we’re disposable NPCs in their dynasty-themed video game.
We watch.
We remember.
We record.
“Can only sing these songs in English. Unless I wanna sleep with the fishes.”
Hated in the Nation – Hindia
We are the hated in the nation.
Not because we hate it.
But because we dare to love it enough to be furious.
We dare to point at the elephant in the room and say,
“HEY, THAT’S A FREAKING ELEPHANT.”
We are hated because we refuse to clap for their circus.
We are hated because we bury their victims, not their lies.
We are hated because we remember the 72 bodies in Sumatra when they want us to get distracted by TikTok trends.
We are hated because we keep mentioning those innocent dead bodies in the past months due to the demonstration.
We are hated because we keep our justice alive through our friends who are jailed – for being brave and standing in the right track of history.
We are hated because we will keep their names like a mantra through the night of praying, hoping that the universe and even the Gods align with our prayers.
yang harusnya dijamah cepat. Kan kita yang teraniaya.
We are hated because we OPEN OUR EYES.
Because we breathe.
Because we exist.
The rain keeps falling.
The tax keeps rising.
The disasters keep multiplying.
And from the palaces?
Nothing.
Silence so loud it could deafen God.
P.S. Maybe memang tinggal menunggu hari penghakiman saja.
Because honestly — who else is keeping score?
Penulis: Niken Donamor
Editor: N. D. Carla Sitorus
Desainer: Kendra Luvena Cintanayla
