Bismillah…
A reflection on loss, survival, and the silent wisdom carried by water.
Aceh is a province on the western tip of Sumatra, embraced by the vast and powerful sea.
Of its 23 districts and cities, 18 lie along the coast.
Aceh’s shoreline stretches long, one of the longest in Sumatra,
blessed with breathtaking beaches and sweeping horizons.
But beauty, like a coin, has two sides.
The same water that soothes the heart
can also arrive with a force that reshapes the world.
Twenty years ago, Aceh faced a trial that shook not just Indonesia,
but the entire world.
The 2004 tsunami,
a disaster that, within hours, swallowed entire towns and rewrote thousands of lives.
I remember that day clearly.
It was a Sunday morning, around 7:00 a.m.
I was having breakfast with two friends who were staying at my home.
My parents were in Malaysia; only my siblings and I were at home.
A phone call came in, but I didn’t hear it.
We were in the kitchen, laughing, talking, living an ordinary morning.
Then at exactly 8:00 a.m., the earth began to move.
At first, I thought it was a small quake.
But the shaking intensified—longer, heavier, terrifying.
We ran outside and lay face-down on the road.
The 8.9 magnitude earthquake felt as though the land itself
was pulling away from the sky.
I watched banana leaves touch the ground,
heard glass shatter inside the house,
saw walls tremble,
and for the first time, feared the earth beneath me might split open.
Five to seven minutes felt like a lifetime.
When the shaking stopped, I returned inside.
The house was a mess: TV cords yanked out, books thrown from their shelves,
shards of glass scattered across the kitchen floor.
I began cleaning…
Until my aunt rushed in, panic in her eyes.
“Pack quickly. The sea is rising. We need to evacuate.”
I froze.
The sea?
It was 20 kilometres away from our home.
Seeing me stunned, she touched my shoulder,
“Now. Take only what matters.”
I grabbed my prayer garment, a change of clothes,
my certificates, and a few essentials.
We gathered at a relative’s house,
waiting for the car that would take us to safety.
People outside moved like frantic ants,
carrying whatever they could save.
An hour later, news arrived:
the water had receded.
The waves had reached only as far as the river,
about 8 kilometres from our village.
We returned home.
My friends were picked up by their families
and immediately evacuated to Medan.
Then I checked my phone.
There was a missed call from earlier that morning.
Later I learned that the friend who called me
was among the tsunami victims,
one of many whose bodies were never found.
Her house was right by Ulee Lheue Beach.
She often encouraged me to finish my studies…
and that morning, she left this world without goodbye.
My academic advisor also passed away,
the one who promised to schedule my research seminar
upon returning from his trip.
He, too, never returned.
That disaster taught me about loss,
about the fragility of life,
and about how water can take away
not only homes and belongings,
but the people we love.
At the end of 2025, water returned.
Not from the sea this time,
but from the river.
A massive flood struck our region.
Alhamdulillah, Allah protected our family once again,
just as He had during the tsunami.
But the impact was still heavy:
- days of power outages,
- scarce clean water,
- candles sold out everywhere,
- food shortages,
- rising prices,
- no phone signal,
- fuel scarcity and long lines at every station.
- Less gas LPG
Even as I write this,
some areas remain flooded,
and assessments continue.
But my heart holds firmly to Allah’s promise:
“Indeed, with hardship comes ease.”
Just as the tsunami,
though it carved the deepest wound,
led to Aceh rising stronger,
more developed,
and seen by the world…
I believe this flood at the end of 2025
carries its own wisdom;
a gift hidden in difficulty,
a lesson being prepared for us
as we step into 2026 with new awareness and strength.
Aceh has never walked an easy path.
Its history is a history of trials,
wars, upheavals, natural disasters.
Yet these trials forged resilience.
The courage of Acehnese women
is even documented in history
at major libraries in the Netherlands,
recognized as symbols of bravery and endurance.
Water always arrives with a message.
The sea teaches loss.
The river teaches endurance.
Both teach that:
- Life can change in an instant.
- Nothing truly belongs to us.
- Real strength is surrender, not resistance.
- What remains is only what the heart holds.
- And every disaster carries something Allah wants us to hear.
Water also taught me something personal:
that even in limitation, we must keep moving.
People see the result,
but they rarely see the quiet, heavy process behind it,
the small but sacred steps
we take just to keep going.
Because sometimes,
one small step during hardship
is more meaningful
than a thousand steps in ease.
Water can destroy,
but water can also purify.
Water can take,
but water can also return.
Perhaps this is how Allah whispers to us,
that behind every wave lies a lesson,
behind every disaster lies barakah,
and within every hardship lies a soul
that Allah is shaping into something stronger.
Aceh once fell,
and Allah raised it again.
Aceh is tested once more,
and Allah will strengthen it again.
Because every water carries a message,
and every trial brings us
one step closer to Him.
Alhamdulillah…