On 8^th June 2025, in a sermon on Pentecost, at the Cathedral of the Three Kings in Timika, in Papua, Bishop Bernardus Bofitwos Baru OSA addressed his congregation and asked a very important question: “What kind of world are we going to leave to our children?”  The silence which followed the statement echoed more than just a moment of reflection; it was a moment of collective grief. His words were not just rhetoric but a cry in the deepest sense of the word, the cry of a religious leader who was watching the destruction of the creation of God before his very own eyes.  It was a spiritual cry of lamentation, that destruction of the natural world, which was unfolding just outside the walls of the church, should not be allowed to go any further.

Indonesia, the world’s largest archipelagic nation with more than 17,000 islands, is very uniquely blessed and at the same time uniquely vulnerable. Among these, over 10,000 are small islands that have very vibrant ecosystems teeming with life and rich in cultural and spiritual traditions. These islands are not mere territories on a map but they are sacred spaces, homes, and lifelines to the people who have coexisted in harmony with nature for ages. However, today, a lot of them are under silent attack.

Raja Ampat, the jewel of Indonesia’s marine biodiversity, once hailed around the world as a place of natural beauty because of its spectacular coral reefs, and very extensive ecological diversity has become a lesson in extractive violence. Although classified as a conservation area to be preserved, there has been a lot of pressure on the region in the form of nickel mining activities that threaten both land and sea. In early 2025, the Indonesian government canceled four mining licences there in the face of heavy local and international criticism. Nevertheless, the damage has already been done; deforestation, habitat disruption, and toxic runoff have already left a very long shadow over one of the most sacred and fragile ecosystems in the world.

Raja Ampat might be the most conspicuous example,  but it is far from being the only isolated case.  In North Maluku,  islands like Gebe, and Fau, which were once very lush and biodiverse have been devastated by nickel mining.  On Gebe Island, mining activities have cleared whole hillsides, polluted the nearby springs that the villages depend on, and left some families paying as much as IDR 840,000 (~USD 53) a month to have their water brought in by truck as groundwater is lost.  Fau Island, part of the Gebe cluster,  has over half of its territory covered by mining concessions up to 2032 despite a lot of opposition from the Indigenous people. 

Meanwhile, in the broader Halmahera-region, the Weda Bay Industrial Park and network of nickel smelters have transformed many neighboring islands and villages. The district lost over 27,900 hectares (68,900 acres) of tree cover between 2001 and 2023, and respiratory infections have surged in the communities around, from 434 cases in 2020 to more than 10,500 cases in 2023. The once clear and life-giving rivers have turned murky-sediment-choked and polluted,  putting fisheries as well as vital drinking water at a great risk. 

Nickel is not the only mining that contributes to the toll, smaller scale mining also plays a role. In Bangka Island (North Sulawesi), a permit to mine iron ore has been renewed several times , despite legal rulings to stop the exploration process. Mangroves and reefs have been lost, putting a lot of risks on the dive-tourism business and  livelihood of the locals. In Kabaena (Southeast Sulaewasi) villagers, both farmers and Indigenous Bajau fishers report that mining has made waters previously clear to murky which has wiped out fisheries, poisoned crops, as well as other health problems such rashes and sore throat; with water tests indicating unsafe levels of nickel, lead and cadmium. 

These are not isolated tragedies. They can be characterized as a systemic pattern as small islands that are often connected spiritually and by ancestral ties, take the broadest share of extractive policies that regard natural wealth as something disposable. Each of the cases is a timely warning that the mining of small islands is not just an environmental degradation issue, but it is also a spiritual violence, a breach of justice, and a betrayal of intergenerational responsibility. This is not accidental. It is a policy failure, a short sighted economic interest disguised as a green transition.

The False Promise of Green Extraction 

Indonesia has proudly positioned itself as a very important player in the global energy transition.  Due to the high demand of the use of electric vehicles (EVs) around the globe, the country has become a leading producer of nickel, one of the main components of EV batteries. This is frequently celebrated as a big step forward, a revolution in leaving fossil fuel and moving towards a cleaner greener future.

Rather than lowering environmental damage, the direction taken by Indonesia has merely repackaged extraction under a different name. Nickel mining (particularly in small islands) has brought about rampant deforestation; polluted and poisoned freshwater sources, displaced the Indigenous and local populations, and caused severe health crises. These issues are a reflection of the same issues the green transition is supposed to address.

The irony runs very deep. Even though Indonesia is marketing nickel as the mineral of the future, it is still heavily invested in coal. In 2023 alone, coal represented 40.46 % of Indonesia's primary energy supply. The nation ranks among the largest producers of coal in the entire world and this reliance has come at a huge environmental and social cost. In East Kalimantan alone, unclaimed mining pits by coal companies have turned into death traps taking the lives of children who have fallen in it. Air pollution from coal-fired power plants were linked to over 10,000 premature deaths in Indonesia in 2022. The implication here is obvious: fossil fuels remain the backbone of Indonesia’s energy economy, and the branding of the green alternatives, such as nickel, are actually not so clean. The government and industry are not transitioning away from extraction; they are just merely intensifying it in the name of sustainability.

At the same time, energy consumption has steadily increased year after year. In the period between 2021 and 2023, the national energy mix still relied on fossil fuels. In 2021, almost 1,000 million barrels of oil equivalent were provided by fossil fuels such as coal, oil, and natural gas, and the two biggest users were the transportation sector which consumed 42.72% , followed by the industrial sector at 34.93 % (ESDM, 2023). The following year witnessed even increased reliance on fossil fuel especially by the industrial sector that contributed more than 41 percent of the national energy demand. By 2023, that increased to 45.60%, whereas transportation was at 36.74% revealing not much progress has been made when it comes to decarbonization.

Worse still, the burden of this so-called transition falls on the country’s most vulnerable regions and communities. From the small islands of North Maluku to the forests of Sulawesi and the coastal villages of Papua, mining of the minerals for the energy transition has resulted in poisoned water, polluted air, and devastated ecosystems. It is a transition not established based on justice, but sacrifice zones , where the majority of the inhabitants are Indigenous people, fisherfolk and smallholder farmers.

If this is the cost of “green progress,” then we must ask: for whom is the energy transition truly working? And also who is paying the price?  

Between 2021 and 2024, more than 5,000 hectares of forest were destroyed in North Maluku due to nickel mining. A 2024 study by the Nexus Foundation revealed that local residents had elevated levels of toxic heavy metals, mercury and arsenic in their blood, in some cases these levels were as high as those of industrial workers. These are not just environmental statistics. These are the lives of people that are at stake.

I have traversed villages in North Maluku, where children are no longer allowed to play along the riverbanks. The streams that once sustained their people are now stained red with the sediments and chemical wastes. The Fishing folk informed me that their catches have reduced considerably. Mothers report how their children wheeze at night. In Teluk Weda, I met a woman who is no longer able to drink the water of her well, because she is afraid of what lurks unseen in every water drop.

The health impacts are devastating. The number of acute respiratory infections (ARI) in the region has risen astronomically, going up by 434 cases in 2020 to 10,579 in 2023. Over 500 cases of diarrhea are reported annually. These numbers reflect only what is recorded; countless others suffer in silence. What is a green transition to them as their skies darken, their waters become more hazardous and their futures more uncertain? 

This cannot be considered a policy lapse, but rather structural violence in disguised as development. Communities at the frontline of the so-called energy transition are not reaping its benefits. They are paying for it with their health, their ecosystems, and their culture. 

A ray of hope came in early 2025, when the government announced it was revoking four mining permits in Raja Ampat. But hope alone is not enough. Raja Ampat is a region  blessed with unparalleled marine biodiversity, that  mining should never have been an option in the first place. Withdrawing some permits is not a courageous climate policy but rather a damage control. Meanwhile, there are dozens of other active mining permits that are still untouched, endangering fragile environments throughout the Indonesian archipelago. 

The refusal to confront extractive industry interest in the name of green innovation, illustrates the superficiality of state interests in justice. The words “sustainability” and “net zero” ring hollow when they are built on poisoned rivers and grieving mothers. 

As a believer, as an environmental activist, and simply as a human being, I cannot reconcile myself with the idea that progress must come at this cost. Real transition is not about switching one form of exploitation for another. It should be established on equity, consent and restoration. 

Indonesia has a choice: to set a great example and lead the world with a model of climate action that is just, transparent, and inclusive, or remain on a trajectory where the 'green economy' is the same as the old economy just repainted with a different shade of cruelty.

Faith Leaders Speak Out 

Ever since the Indonesian Government started handing out new permits including on small islands that are ecologically very vulnerable, there has been a wave of public debate. There were those who highly welcomed the prospect of new jobs and local investment while others, notably environmentalists, Indigenous peoples and religious organizations were highly concerned. Among the most painful realities is that certain senior religious figures have become commissioners or advisors to mining firms, causing split even among religious groups themselves. Their roles blur the line between moral guidance and political interest, leaving many followers feeling disappointed.

But many others, across faith traditions, have chosen to speak up and stand firm. 

People of faith across Indonesia are no longer willing to stay silent. At GreenFaith Indonesia, we have witnessed the rise of an interreligious movement that are strongly demanding moral accountability against environmental degradation. These voices are not coming from the headquarters of the institutions but at the grassroots levels, through local pastors, ulama, monks, priests, Indigenous elders, who work with their communities everyday and witness the sufferings firsthand.

As the Qur’an teaches: “Do not cause corruption on the earth after it has been set in order” (Al-A’raf: 56). Mining in small islands exacerbates the destruction of fragile ecosystems which also worsens the climate crisis. Revoking destructive mining permits is not just a legal obligation, but it is also an act of obedience to God.

In Hindu belief, the concept of Tri Hita Karana teaches harmony between humanity, nature, and the divine. “Mining violates this sacred balance,” I often hear from Balinese leaders. “When bhuwana agung (the universe) is harmed, bhuwana alit (the human soul) is corrupted.” 

The same voice is echoed by Christians. Rev. Prof. Binsar Pakpahan, a theologian at Jakarta Theological Seminary, argues that greed-based mining is a structural sin. "Ethics of sufficiency should trickle down to corporate boardrooms and policy-makers", he says. “Faith must not only be preached from pulpits, it must disrupt systems that normalize environmental destruction.” 

From the Buddhist tradition, the message is also equally clear. As Upasaka Titha Sukho from the Buddhist Youth Environmental Movement explains, destroying forests, the habitat of living beings, sows suffering, violating the Dhamma. “When forests fall, so do homes, livelihoods, and spiritual balance,” she reminds us. 

The indigenous communities are also custodians of sacred ecological knowledge. In Bali, the Dalem Tamblingan community, whose roots trace back to the 10th century, honors a sacred covenant known as Piagem Gama Tirta. This ancestral philosophy places great value in water as the origin of life and lays out harmony with nature. To them forests and lakes are not goods but ancestral spirits. To extract, contaminate, or obliterate these species means to violate the strong spiritual bond that has sustained them for generations. 

These voices; religious, Indigenous, moral, are not peripheral to climate discourse. They are at its very core. They not only talk to support creation but also fret against a world order that considers sacred lands as dispensable and spiritual values as negotiable.

A Call to Conscience 

Indonesia finds itself in a crossroads today, not only in its climate policy, but also in the values that it wants to practice as a country. In recent years, the language of sustainability has become fashionable. Officials in government talk about net-zero targets and electric cars and the transition to green energy. But when the path to that future is paved with the suffering of Indigenous communities, poisoned rivers, and forests reduced to dust, we must ask: whose future are we really protecting?

All over the archipelago, small islands which are our ancestral lands, our ecological sanctuaries, are being converted into sacrifice zones. These are not only geographical casualties. They are communities. They are children who are inhaling polluted air. Old people consuming water contaminated with arsenic. Coral reefs dying in silence. Culture and faith severed from the land that gave them life.

True solutions to the climate crisis cannot be founded on new kinds of violence. A just energy transition should be grounded in respect for the ecosystems, for the people, and for the future generations. We cannot afford a “green economy” is that  reflection of the injustices of the extractive economy it wants to replace.

Indonesia’s Constitution calls for the protection of the environment. Its spiritual cultures, including Islam, Christianity, Hinduism and Buddhism, as well as Indigenous cosmologies, teach harmony, compassion and stewardship. And its citizens, particularly, those on the front lines, are demanding better.

This is no longer simply a policy issue. This is a matter of conscience. 

Can we still hear the cries of nature being destroyed? Can we still feel the pain of coastal communities gasping for breath in poisoned air, fishing in toxic waters? Will we be remembered as the generation who watched paradise burn in the name of profit? 

Or will we rise to defend creation? 

In the name of justice, faith, and our collective future, we must act. Revoke the permits. Protect the islands. Honor the sacred.