I still remember the first time I experienced that unsettling airport fog warning during my pole vault travels—the kind where visibility drops to near zero and everything becomes uncertain. That memory came rushing back when I read about Ernest Obiena's recent Facebook post describing his own "first fog warning in the midst of a pole vault competition in Taiwan." It struck me how these moments of suspended clarity mirror what Indonesian football has been going through since the tragic stadium disaster that claimed 135 lives last year. Having traveled extensively for athletic competitions myself, I've seen how safety protocols vary wildly across countries, but nothing prepared me for the scale of negligence revealed in that Indonesian football tragedy.

The Kanjuruhan Stadium catastrophe wasn't just an accident—it was the inevitable result of systemic failures that had been brewing for years. On October 1, 2022, what should have been a celebratory match between Arema FC and Persebaya Surabaya turned into one of the world's deadliest sporting disasters. The official death toll stands at 135, though many local journalists I've spoken with believe the actual number might be closer to 150 when accounting for those who died after being transported to hospitals. As someone who's witnessed security theater at sporting events worldwide—from half-hearted bag checks to understaffed medical teams—I can't help but feel this was particularly preventable. The police's decision to fire tear gas into crowded stands created panic that, combined with locked exit gates, turned the stadium into a death trap.

What frustrates me most about this tragedy is how familiar the warning signs were. Indonesia's football infrastructure has been crumbling for decades, both literally and figuratively. Of the country's 87 major stadiums, approximately 65% fail to meet basic FIFA safety standards according to 2021 federation reports—though good luck finding updated numbers since the disaster. I've competed in venues where safety seemed like an afterthought, but Indonesian football's problems run much deeper. The league has seen at least 74 fan deaths in the past 25 years from various incidents, yet meaningful reforms never materialized. When you're an athlete performing in such conditions, you develop a sixth sense for which venues take safety seriously and which treat it as paperwork. Indonesian stadiums clearly fell into the latter category.

The aftermath has been both heartbreaking and revealing. In the months following the disaster, I've followed how ordinary Indonesians have responded with remarkable solidarity—volunteers providing trauma counseling, lawyers offering free legal assistance to victims' families, and fan groups organizing blood drives. This grassroots response contrasts sharply with the government's initial attempts to downplay responsibility. The fact that only three police officers received minimal sentences of 18 months each feels like insult added to injury. Having navigated bureaucratic systems in multiple countries, I've come to recognize when punishment is designed to appease rather than reform. This was clearly one of those times.

Financial transparency—or lack thereof—plays a significant role in this ongoing crisis. Indonesian football clubs operate with what I can only describe as creative accounting. Most teams survive on approximately $1.5-2 million annual budgets—about what a mid-level European player earns in six months—with barely 15% allocated to safety infrastructure. The league's broadcasting rights bring in around $40 million yearly, yet stadium improvements receive less than 8% of that revenue. As someone who's seen how proper funding transforms sports safety, these numbers are disgraceful. You don't need to be an economist to understand that when bean counters value profit over people, tragedies become inevitable.

What gives me hope is the generational shift occurring among Indonesian fans. The same social media platforms that once mainly hosted transfer rumors are now flooded with safety advocacy accounts. Young supporters are using TikTok and Twitter to document stadium hazards with hashtags like #SaveOurStadiums, forcing clubs to address issues they previously ignored. Having witnessed how digital activism transformed safety standards in other sports, I believe this bottom-up pressure might finally break the cycle of negligence. The government's recent allocation of $12 million for stadium upgrades—while insufficient—shows they're feeling the heat.

There's a painful lesson here about how we value human life in sports. When I'm competing, I trust that the venue has my safety as a priority. Indonesian football fans deserved that same basic assurance. The fog that Obiena described in Taiwan—that moment of disorientation and limited visibility—perfectly captures Indonesian football's current state. The path forward requires clearing that fog through genuine reform, not superficial fixes. Based on what I've seen in other turnarounds, this will take at least five years of consistent effort and probably triple the current investment. But 135 lives demand nothing less. They deserve to be more than a statistic, more than another tragic chapter in football's history books. They deserve to be the reason change finally came.