Edited by stingerkentot at 18-12-2025 01:28 AM
Damage exceeded USD 3.1 billion, wiping out roads, bridges, plantations, schools, and entire neighborhoods. Power and communication lines collapsed, leaving parts of Aceh, North Sumatra, and West Sumatra isolated for days.
For readers unfamiliar with Indonesia, disasters of this scale are tragically not rare. The country of nearly 280 million people sits on the seismically active Pacific “Ring of Fire,” spread across more than 17,000 islands. Floods, earthquakes, and volcanic eruptions are annual realities. Indonesia is also home to the world’s largest Muslim-majority population, which has historically kept it closely connected to the Middle East through religion, trade, and migration.
This connection was immediately visible in the days following the disaster. On 1 December, Saudi Arabia’s Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman sent a personal telegram to Indonesian President Prabowo Subianto expressing “deep sorrow,” followed by a parallel message from King Salman. The United Arab Emirates publicly announced it had humanitarian assistance on standby, with Ambassador Abdulla Salem Al Dhaheri stating that the UAE was ready to deploy relief teams and supplies “as soon as Indonesia declares its openness.
” Qatar’s Emir Sheikh Tamim bin Hamad Al Thani sent condolences. Oman’s Sultan Haitham bin Tariq and Iran’s President Masoud Pezeshkian also expressed sympathy, with Tehran offering to dispatch emergency teams. The Organization of Islamic Cooperation, representing 57 Muslim-majority states, urged rapid support.
These were not symbolic gestures. The Middle East has deep ties to Indonesia: millions of Indonesian workers live in Saudi Arabia, the UAE, Qatar, and Oman; Gulf sovereign wealth funds are heavily invested in Indonesian infrastructure and agriculture; and Jakarta increasingly sees the Middle East as a strategic partner. The impulse to help was immediate and sincere.
Yet Indonesia responded cautiously. On 5 December, Indonesian Foreign Minister Sugiono declared that “international assistance is not yet necessary,” explaining that domestic capacity remained sufficient. State Secretary Prasetyo Hadi repeatedthe message the next day, saying the government had its own “considerations.”
To many in the Middle East, the refusal was perplexing. The humanitarian need was enormous, and assistance was coming from friendly states with neither political preconditions nor strategic demands.
Indonesia’s hesitancy is rooted in its political history. After the 2004 Indian Ocean tsunami devastated Aceh—resulting in the loss of more than 160,000 lives—the country saw an unprecedented influx of foreign militaries, NGOs, and aid teams. While that aid saved lives, it also sparked unease within Indonesia’s political elite about sovereignty and international oversight.
Since then, the Indonesian government has been reluctant to accept large-scale foreign assistance unless a “national disaster” is formally declared—a designation used only twice: for the 2004 tsunami and the COVID-19 pandemic. Jakarta has not applied that designation to the current floods, leaving foreign aid effectively restricted.
Another layer of sensitivity involves environmental governance. Indonesian civil society groups—including Mining Advocacy Network (JATAM) and the Indonesian Forum for the Environment (Walhi)—have identified overlaps between upstream mining and plantation concessions and the regions hit hardest by the floods.
According to their mapping, licenses for mining, oil and gas exploration, and industrial forestry plantations sit across critical watersheds. Activists argue these concessions have contributed to deforestation, slope erosion, and river degradation, increasing the frequency and intensity of flooding.
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Post time 17-12-2025 12:38 AM
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