The roads were chaos. Dayak men, their bodies painted with mud and motifs of hornbills, dragged Madurese families from their homes. The smoke from burning houses painted the sunset the color of a fresh wound. Juminten ran toward the port, her sandals slapping the cracked asphalt. She saw the head of Burhan the carpenter resting on a fence post, his scarred eyebrow raised in eternal surprise. She vomited into a bush and kept running.
The air in Sampit, Central Kalimantan, was thick enough to chew. It wasn’t just the humidity from the Sekonyer River; it was the smell of clove cigarettes, diesel, and fear. For six months, Juminten, a Madurese migrant, had called this chaotic logging town home. She ran a small warung —a food stall—serving spicy cah kangkung and ikan asin to the loggers. Her Javanese husband had left years ago, so it was just her and her son, Arif, a boy with ears too big for his head and a laugh that could cut through the smoke. sampit madura
At the river, a dozen fishing boats were overloaded with refugees. A Madurese woman held a baby so tightly the infant had stopped crying. An old man was reciting the shahada over and over. A boatman, a Javanese who owed Juminten money for months of meals, saw her. “Get in,” he barked. “But only because you gave me credit.” The roads were chaos