Our Homes? (Sumatra Flood 2025)

Is this our home? our place? The water came before dawn, a whisper turning into a roar. We held our breath as the hills unraveled, earth giving way like it had been waiting to fall. People ran barefoot through the rising dark, calling out for names swallowed by the wind. I saw a mother clutching a photograph as if it could breathe again, while the river carried pieces of everything we thought was permanent. And I’m standing where the river broke the silence, where the sky felt heavier than bone. If only the ground had still been strong, maybe the night would’ve spared us— maybe the rain wouldn’t have learned our names. Houses drifted like forgotten prayers, bridges twisting in the current’s mouth. We searched for voices in the mud, hands shaking, hearts sinking, trying to find hope beneath the ruins. Some say the hills grew tired, some say the roots had been thinning for years, taken piece by piece in quiet shadows. I couldn’t blame a single soul— but I felt the land’s exhaustion like a bruise. And I’m calling through the echo of the flood, wishing someone had listened sooner. If only the forest had stayed whole, maybe the earth wouldn’t have slipped from underneath our feet. Tonight the shelters hum like broken lullabies. Children sleep between trembling walls, dreaming of mornings that won’t return. I look at the mountains and wonder how long they begged for help before they fell. Still I’m standing in the shadow of the river, searching for a light that doesn’t drown. If only the roots held their stories tighter, maybe loss wouldn’t echo in every breath we take. So I’m singing for the ones the water carried, for the futures washed into the night— and if the world ever learns from this, may it finally hear the land’s quiet warnings before they turn into a scream. Is this... Is this... Our homes that... we broke on our own?