I don't write this as a commentator who only watches disasters from a screen. I write this as someone who lived through one.

I am Acehnese by blood.

The 2004 tsunami did not just appear on my TV — it erased neighborhoods, families, and futures around me. I was there during the emergency phase, stayed through recovery, and worked in rehabilitation when the cameras were gone. Five years later, in Padang 2009, I stood again in the rubble — different city, same chaos, same pain, same mistakes.

That is why what is happening today in Sumatra hurts differently. It cuts deeper than anger. It feels like betrayal.

The impact is massive. The number of victims is not small. Entire communities are disrupted. And yet, once again, we look like a country that is surprised by a disaster we have experienced over and over again.

This is not about a lack of resources. This is not about a lack of technology. This is not about lack of experience.

Indonesia has helicopters, aircraft, naval access, drones, satellite phones, VSAT, emergency connectivity, trained responders, and thousands of capable volunteers. If roads are cut, air and sea routes exist. If communication collapses, satellite technology exists. If data is unclear, drones can fly before reports are written.

What is missing — painfully, repeatedly — is initiative.

There is hesitation even to acknowledge the scale of the disaster. There is a delay in identifying affected areas. There is slowness in evacuation decisions. Everything waits for coordination meetings, approvals, optics, and political comfort. While that happens, people wait without shelter, without sanitation, without certainty.

And then comes the part that is hardest to accept.

Too many politicians arrive without solutions. They show up, they speak, they pose, and they leave. I am not questioning presence — presence matters — but presence without impact is cruelty disguised as concern.

Even worse, political decisions have been made to close doors to external assistance. International help is rejected. Domestic help from those who genuinely care is questioned, mocked, or buried under bureaucratic red tape with no humanitarian objective. When people are trapped, displaced, and hungry, pride becomes violence.

I remember leadership that felt very different.

During the 2004 tsunami, Jusuf Kalla said something that still echoes today: if logistics warehouses must be broken open to save lives, then break them open. No romantic speeches. No procedural paralysis. No fear of being blamed later. Lives came before rules.

That is leadership. Decisive. Human. Accountable.

Compare that with today, where leadership often feels tone-deaf — present in body, absent in urgency, where decisions are safer for careers than for victims.

And then there is the most cynical pattern of all — ABS, Asal Bapak Senang.

The President arrives, and electricity suddenly works. The President leaves, darkness returns.

The President comes, and BNPB tents appear overnight. Before that, refugees sleep on the roadside.

This is not coordination. This is staging.

It sends a cruel message to victims: your suffering becomes visible only when power is watching.

Yet, amid this disappointment, there is still humanity — and it deserves to be acknowledged.

I deeply respect volunteers who came without banners, without party colors, without institutional branding. I respect public figures who deliberately chose neutrality over publicity — like Bang Komeng, who showed up simply as a PMI volunteer, human first, politician never. No cameras demanded. No slogans worn. Just presence with purpose.

I also salute the engineers, technicians, and field teams who worked relentlessly to restore primary services — electricity, internet connectivity, communication lines, and clean water. These are not glamorous tasks. They do not trend easily. But they are the difference between despair and survival.

What makes all of this harder to accept is the government's continued failure to understand what victims actually need.

They do not need ceremonies. They do not need symbolic gestures. They do not need aid designed for photographs.

They need evacuation. They need shelter. They need sanitation. They need clean water. They need ready-to-eat food. They need clothing.

Not rice thrown from helicopters until it bursts open on the ground. Not rice carried on shoulders for optics. Not irrelevant items that look generous but solve nothing.

There is an almost tragic satire in watching logistics that are technically "delivered" but practically useless.

More than two weeks have passed. Even at an emergency level, basic needs are still not consistently fulfilled. Officials come and go, consuming accommodation budgets, leaving behind statements rather than systems. Campaign promises dissolve quickly when discomfort replaces applause.

This disappointment is not only mine. It is the collective exhaustion of Sumatra — and of Indonesia — watching the same mistakes replayed with different names.

Let me be clear.

This is a personal opinion.

It is shaped by lived experience, accumulated disappointment, and deep empathy for the victims of today's disasters. I do not claim neutrality. I claim honesty.

Disasters do not only kill people. Delay kills. Ego kills. Inaction kills.

If you are reading this and asking what you can do, do something real.

Donate. Support. Share verified aid channels.

You can contribute through organizations such as:

Palang Merah Indonesia (PMI)
Baznas
Dompet Dhuafa
ACT
Verified local volunteer and community-led relief networks on the ground

Victims do not need speeches. They need action — now, not later.

I've read this information as a reference:

BNPB situation reports and national media coverage on the recent Sumatra disaster response.
Social media documentation highlighting delayed evacuation and infrastructure readiness.
Public discussion and viral posts referencing leadership examples from the 2004 Aceh tsunami (including Jusuf Kalla's statements on emergency logistics).
Instagram documentation of Bang Komeng participating as a PMI volunteer without political branding.
NGO and humanitarian commentary on aid bureaucracy and restrictions during disaster response.