At 8:30 that Wednesday morning, June 5, Aceh Governor Muzakir “Mualem” Manaf had to leave for a prescheduled meeting with his constituents. He’d been waiting for almost 1.5 hours, but Bobby Nasution, North Sumatra’s governor, had yet to arrive.
The meeting had been requested by Bobby himself, and Mualem might have wondered—why call for a discussion at 8 a.m. on such a sensitive issue if you couldn’t even be on time? Just as he was about to leave, Bobby, the son-in-law of still-powerful former president Joko “Jokowi” Widodo, showed up.
The talk didn’t last long. After listening for less than ten minutes, Mualem—former commander of the Free Aceh Movement’s (GAM) armed forces—cut the meeting short and walked out. Perhaps he sensed that the issue at hand—the transfer of four strategic islands from Aceh to North Sumatra—was far too critical to be decided in such a superficial exchange.
Yet outside, Bobby smiled for the cameras, claiming that the matter had been discussed “well.” As if the erasure of Aceh’s sovereign territory was a trivial misunderstanding.
Indonesia is at a crossroads once again, a familiar one. A place where greed meets power, where the voices of indigenous peoples are muted, and where decisions are made behind closed doors—then whitewashed for national consumption.
The controversial move by Home Affairs Minister Tito Karnavian to quietly shift Lipan Island, Panjang Island, Mangkir Ketek, and Mangkir Gadang from Aceh to North Sumatra has sparked outrage. These are not mere dots on a map. These are lands surrounded possibly by waters rich in oil, gas, and minerals. The same resources that, for decades, have been used to enrich elites in Jakarta while leaving the local people in poverty, their lands poisoned and traditions forgotten.
There is no valid reason for this transfer. Aceh is at peace. The 2005 Helsinki Agreement promised autonomy, respect, and an end to the decades-long war. So why meddle now? Why redraw borders in secret.
Suspicion, of course, is natural. Especially when you look at who’s benefiting. Bobby Nasution is not just any governor. He is family to Jokowi—Indonesia’s former president who, even after leaving office, continues to cast a long shadow over the country’s politics. Bobby’s name has already been linked to one of the biggest recent corruption scandals—the Medan Block tin mining affair, a scheme reportedly siphoning billions from the nation’s wealth.
This transfer of islands reeks of something far more sinister than administrative adjustment. It smells like a setup—another ploy for a land grab, another door opened for mining concessions and corporate takeovers. Not for the people. Not for Aceh. But for the same circle of men who’ve been feasting on Indonesia’s riches for decades.
And Tito? A former police general turned minister, known for his hardline tactics and centralist instincts, has a track record of viewing resistance not as a symptom of injustice, but as a threat to be neutralized. He might say this is about “clarifying provincial borders,” but we know better. Borders don’t need clarifying when there’s no conflict. They need clarifying when someone wants to shift control.
People in Aceh have seen this movie before. The war. The betrayals. The lootings masked as development. When the tsunami struck in 2004, it wiped out towns, families, and entire generations. But what followed was a political betrayal just as massive. Billions in aid money vanished. Peace brought not justice, but a new elite of businessmen-politicians who never truly represented the people who fought and died.
This island transfer is not an isolated case. It’s part of a pattern.
Just weeks ago, reports emerged of mining activities in Raja Ampat—one of the last untouched paradises in the archipelago. Nickel ore extraction in areas designated for conservation and ecotourism. Again, done in silence. Again, defended with smiles and press statements. Again, no punishment for the perpetrators.
The pattern is simple: find land, exploit it, suppress resistance, reward the cronies. Whether in Papua, Kalimantan, Aceh, or the remote islands of Maluku, the same script is followed. The state becomes a machine for extracting wealth—not for the people, but for the few.
But here’s the dangerous part: in regions like Aceh and Papua, the soil remembers.
Aceh is still scarred from the decades of armed struggle for independence. GAM may have disarmed, but the desire for justice, dignity, and true autonomy hasn’t gone away. Similarly, in Papua, where the Organisasi Papua Merdeka (OPM) continues to resist Jakarta’s grip, every perceived theft of land or resource becomes more than just policy—it becomes another chapter in a long war for freedom.
By stripping Aceh of its islands without consultation, the central government risks reopening wounds that never truly healed. It sends a message: we don’t respect you. We will take what we want. We will decide, you will accept.
In a country already burdened by rising inequality, militarism, and environmental collapse, such arrogance could prove explosive.
Why, then, are these people allowed to operate with impunity?
Because they are protected—by power, by networks, by the culture of impunity that runs deep in Indonesian politics. Investigations stall. Witnesses disappear. Scandals fade. The police, the judiciary, the media—they all know the price of crossing the ruling elite.
When corruption is normalized, even rewarded, it becomes almost impossible to stop. The law bends. The constitution is reinterpreted. And the people? They are gaslit, told to stay calm, to trust the process, to wait for answers that never come.
But history doesn’t forget.
Every piece of land stolen. Every village displaced. Every forest burned for a palm oil concession. Every reef destroyed for tin and nickel. These are not isolated events. They are accumulating anger. An ocean of betrayal that one day, just like Aceh’s tsunami, will return.
Indonesia was built on promises—to be fair, united, sovereign, and just. But when the state acts as a cartel, and leaders see their roles as business licenses rather than a sacred trust, unity becomes fiction. And fiction can only hold so long before truth erupts.
Mualem’s quiet walkout might seem like a footnote in Jakarta’s grand narrative. But it might also be the spark.
The people of Aceh are watching. Papua is watching. Indonesia’s forgotten and exploited are watching.
And perhaps one day soon, they won’t just walk out of meetings.
They’ll walk back into the streets.
Omong-Omong Media’s editorial is also published in The Jakarta Post every Monday.
