BIREUEN — The floods that swept across Sumatra arrived like an open wound, leaving losses that time cannot easily heal. In Aceh, one of the hardest-hit areas is Bireuen Regency—once a quiet region, now transformed into a vast landscape of mud, debris, and memories too painful to relive.
Nearly all subdistricts in Bireuen were affected. The floodwaters that surged in from upstream in late November pushed relentlessly toward the coast, carrying thick mud, fallen trees, and the remains of collapsed homes. Roads that once bustled with daily life are now buried under brown sludge reaching up to an adult’s calves.
In several locations, the road surface has virtually disappeared, turning into long muddy trenches. Bridges connecting villages were damaged or destroyed, leaving entire communities cut off for days.
Homes were submerged in mud that seemed impossible to clear. Residents described the experience as being “buried alive.” Some houses collapsed as their foundations were eroded, while others were completely swept away, leaving behind only broken walls or roof fragments.
Rice fields—the backbone of local livelihoods—were transformed into vast pools of thick, murky sludge. Crops ready for harvest vanished in moments. Livestock were dragged away by the current: cattle, goats, even poultry that would normally escape danger stood no chance against the force of the water.
According to data from Indonesia’s National Disaster Management Agency (BNPB) as of Wednesday (December 10, 2025), 29 people lost their lives in the floods in Bireuen. These numbers represent not statistics, but families who lost fathers, mothers, children, and siblings—many without a chance to say goodbye. Most victims were swept away while attempting to save themselves or help others.
Nurhayati’s Story: Swept Away by the Flood
Amid the devastation, a woman in her early sixties sits quietly in what was once her home’s yard—now turned into an evacuation post. Her name is Nurhayati, a resident of Cot Ara Village, Kuta Blang District. Her house is buried in mud beyond repair. A widow, she lived with only one relative and had nowhere else to go.
“All the small shops near the intersection were swept away. The rice fields can no longer be used,” she recalled, her voice breaking.
Before her stretched what used to be green farmland, sustaining many families. Now it resembles a stagnant, muddy lake. Surrounding houses stand like carcasses abandoned after a storm. Nurhayati, who lived a modest life as a homemaker, repeatedly revisits the scene in her mind—still struggling to believe that parts of her life disappeared within hours. At times, she exhales softly, as if trying to accept that life will never be the same after that day.
Cot Ara Village suffered some of the most severe damage. Thirty houses were swept away, several leaving no trace at all. The current was so strong that residents had no time to save their belongings—only the clothes on their backs.
Nurhayati herself experienced the most terrifying moments when her aging body was dragged by the floodwaters. Her life nearly ended. In panic, she grasped at anything she could. Finally, she reached a sturdy mango tree standing in a neighbor’s yard. With the last of her strength, she clung tightly to its trunk and held on until help arrived.
“The water kept rising until the house was submerged. I was swept away by the current. I survived because of that mango tree,” she said, wiping her face with a red headscarf—the one item that now seems to be all she has left.
She spent three days in an evacuation shelter and only returned to check on her home on Friday (December 5, 2025). When asked about her most urgent needs going forward, Nurhayati fell silent for a long time. Her eyes reddened, then filled with tears. They fell before she could say a word. She wiped them with her worn headscarf—no complaint, no request.
Her silence did not mean she did not know what she needed. It was the silence of exhaustion beyond explanation. How does one articulate needs when what has been lost is not only a house, but safety, stability, and pieces of oneself?
From the yard-turned-shelter, she watched people moving about—volunteers cooking warm meals, barefoot children running around, small laughter masking fear. Her former home had become a refuge for many.
DT Peduli arrived with assistance, including food packages, hygiene kits, baby supplies, and bottled water—bringing reassurance that the survivors were not alone, and that compassion still existed.
Bireuen is now entering the recovery phase. Aid has begun to arrive, shelters are being established, and residents are slowly clearing debris. Yet the road to recovery remains long. Mud must be removed, homes rebuilt, and livelihoods reimagined.
For someone like Nurhayati, recovery is not merely about rebuilding a physical house. It is about rebuilding the belief that life still has direction. For now, she sits quietly, gazing at the mud, gripping her red headscarf tightly—as if it is the only thing the flood could not take from her.
Editor: Agus ID