Haze in Indonesia and the question of BWF's double standards

In the middle of the GOR Among Rogo sports hall in Malang, the air is not just hot but hazy, as if a thin layer of fog covers everything. Ashmita Chaliha has just finished her quarterfinal match. She stands there, looks around, and asks a question no one here dares to ask: "If this tournament were held in India, would everyone stay silent?" That is a haunting question, especially when just a few weeks earlier, India hosted the 2026 World Championships in New Delhi – the first time in 17 years. That tournament was praised by players and the BWF president alike. But at the Indonesia Masters Super 100, the lowest tier of the World Tour, the playing conditions tell a completely different story. Chaliha, the top seed, had to survive two matches with uncomfortable scorelines: 21-17, 23-21 against Pornpicha Choeikeewong, and 10-21, 21-10, 21-17 against Goh Jin Wei. She won, but her question about air quality and organizational standards has sparked a debate far bigger than the results on court. Super 100 is the bottom rung of the BWF World Tour system. With meager points and prize money, these tournaments typically attract players ranked between 50 and 150 in the world. That means they have few choices – if they want to accumulate points, they must accept playing in venues where facilities are not up to the standard of bigger events. Chaliha, at the peak of her career at 26, understands this well. She chose the Indonesia Masters as part of her points-accumulation strategy, but she didn't expect to face an atmosphere "hazy like smog," as she described it. What's striking is how she framed the issue. She didn't directly criticize BWF but posed a comparative question: "Imagine if this tournament were held in India. Would people speak up?" This question touches a long-standing pain point: the asymmetry in how tournaments are monitored. The India Open has faced intense criticism over air quality, cold, and hygiene. Anders Antonsen even withdrew and accepted a fine over pollution concerns. Mia Blichfeldt has also publicly complained about hygiene. But when the problem occurs in Indonesia, at a Super 100 event, no one speaks up. The data from Chaliha's two matches paints an interesting picture. Against Choeikeewong, she won a tight 23-21 second game, showing she can secure points in clutch moments but not dominate. Against Goh Jin Wei, she lost 10-21 in the first game, then won 21-10 and 21-17. The large score swings between games suggest she may have adjusted tactics, or her opponent – who has a history of heart issues – faded physically. But it's also possible that the playing conditions themselves affected the match tempo. When the air is hazy, continuous movement and breathing become harder, impacting both players' stamina. I have followed many Super 100 tournaments across Southeast Asia during my five years in the profession. From Malaysia to Thailand, I've witnessed courts with poor ventilation, flickering lights, and cramped hallways. But never have I seen a player speak out as publicly as Chaliha. In the middle of an empty stadium, I hear the very unique pulse of data – score numbers that reflect not just skill level but also playing conditions. When a player wins 21-10 then loses 10-21 in the same match, that's not just tactics. That's the body reacting to the environment. There is a counter-intuitive angle few consider: is Chaliha's voice a privilege that only players of a certain ranking possess? Lower-ranked players, who depend entirely on Super 100 events to make a living, probably don't dare speak up for fear of affecting their chances of being invited to tournaments. Chaliha, with her top-seed status and backing from the national federation, can speak without fear of retribution. This creates another injustice: those who suffer the most are the ones with the least voice. Moreover, criticizing playing conditions in Indonesia could inadvertently set an unwanted precedent. If BWF were to enforce strict standards for all tournaments, organizational costs would rise, potentially leading to a reduction in the number of Super 100 events – which would harm the very players Chaliha is trying to protect. But one thing is certain: BWF's silence in response to Chaliha's question will not last forever. The organization is at a crossroads. It can continue to tolerate the quality gap between tournament tiers, or it can begin building a system of minimum standards that every tournament, regardless of tier, must meet. Chaliha's question has opened a door that BWF cannot keep shutting silently. I once called a name wrong three times, to learn that titles are the most sacred thing. And I have also learned that in sports, respect is not reserved only for stars on big courts, but also for those playing in the shadows of smaller tournaments. They deserve to compete in safe conditions, not because of who they are, but because they are athletes. When the locker room door closes, the real match begins. But Chaliha's question has opened another door – one that BWF cannot continue to close in silence. Will this organization dare to face the truth that not all players get to compete under fair conditions? Or will we continue to hear the pulse of tired hearts in the hazy air, and only when someone collapses will people begin to listen?