The Irony of Waste Law in the Capital of Mecca’s Verandah

Among Aceh’s 23 districts and municipalities, Banda Aceh holds a special place. It is more than a city. It is the capital—a centre of governance, a hub of commerce, and the heart of public service delivery. And with that comes a heavy burden: waste.

Farhan Nurhadi

OVER 200 tonnes of garbage are produced here every single day. Organic and inorganic. But the real concern is not the quantity. It’s the mentality. It’s not what we throw away—but how we choose to throw it.

There is a law. Qanun No. 01/2017 on Waste Management—a policy rooted in siyasah syar’iyyah, the Islamic philosophy of governance for public good. Yet eight years on, that policy remains largely toothless. Not because the law is weak, but because the will to enforce it is.

The problem isn’t in the legal text. It’s in what we choose to ignore. Oversight is lax. Public participation is nearly non-existent. And far too many still believe waste is the government’s problem, not theirs.

But waste management is never just technical. It’s not simply about collection and disposal. It’s about conscience. It’s about collective responsibility. It’s about recognising that a clean environment is not a luxury—but a shared right.

That awareness, tragically, is still missing. We still see people toss trash from car windows. In a city dubbed the “verandah of Mecca”, such acts no longer shock. They’ve become mundane. Normalised.

It’s a painful irony—especially when seen through the lens of our own history. Islamic governance in centuries past treated environmental stewardship not as bureaucracy, but as a form of worship. Under Sultan Iskandar Muda, the Sultanate of Aceh Darussalam wasn’t just feared for its military might, but respected for its civic discipline and moral order.

Cleanliness then wasn’t optional. It was integral. Public spaces were regulated. Offenders faced both religious and customary sanctions—not as punishment, but as a reminder of maslahah ‘ammah—the collective good.

That spirit echoes the Quranic call in Surah Al-A’raf: “Do not cause corruption on the earth after it has been set in order.” Even small, repeated transgressions—like littering—can contribute to that very corruption.

Today, our laws may be comprehensive. But they lack soul. The siyasah syar’iyyah we claim as our foundation has yet to touch the minds and hearts of the people. Without genuine outreach, these rules remain ink on paper.

What’s needed now is not just new policy, but renewed consciousness. Not slogans, but action. Leadership must go beyond regulation. It must inspire. Religious and community leaders must not be sidelined until the ribbon-cutting begins. They should be the front line of moral mobilisation.

Neglecting the environment is not just a civic failure. It is a spiritual lapse. Awareness cannot be legislated—it must be cultivated.

Islam gives us the principle: cleanliness is part of faith. Not a motto. A mandate. To keep our surroundings clean is to preserve human dignity.

So let this be our awakening. Environmental care is not passive piety—it’s active faith. Real change starts when example outpaces rhetoric. When discipline comes before display.

We are not short of qanun. What we lack is resolve. Our past offers not nostalgia, but guidance. The sultans of old didn’t wait for society to change. They led that change—with moral clarity and courageous enforcement.

Now it’s our turn. Not to romanticise the past, but to honour its legacy. Through action. Through accountability.

Because syariat is not just about our relationship with God. It is also about how we live with one another—and with the earth. “Corruption has appeared on land and sea because of what human hands have done,” says Surah Ar-Rum, verse 41.

Environmental degradation reflects a deeper truth: that we have fallen short in our duty as caretakers of this world. And that failure often begins with something as simple—and as deadly—as a discarded piece of rubbish.

The verse is not just a warning. It is a call to return. To rethink. To restore.

And the path forward lies not in convenience, but in consciousness.

The author is a master’s student in Islamic Studies, specialising in Modern Fiqh, at the Graduate School of UIN Ar-Raniry, Banda Aceh.