Jane Perlez, Unukan – Bent with the strain of balancing 12 years' of belongings, Zainal, a migrant worker who had just been expelled from Malaysia, struggled to board a navy boat that would take him back to his village. His long run of work abroad had abruptly come to an end. Two of his three children tottered along with him, clutching at his arms, their faces tight with fear. Born in neighboring Malaysia, they had never seen their parents' home country.
"I had to leave my job at the watermelon plantation and I have no money for a new passport and a work permit," said Mr. Zainal, who like many Indonesians uses only one name, as he headed for the gangplank.
Day after day, thousands of Indonesian migrant workers have been sailing to their home provinces from this equatorial port, fleeing new laws in Malaysia that took effect on August 1. The laws call for the imprisonment and caning of illegal workers and heavy penalties for their employers.
Thousands more expelled workers linger in the rickety town here, waiting, they say, for documents that will allow them to return legally to Malaysia, where the money is good and their heavy labor on construction sites and plantations is in demand.
They are sleeping on the streets, on verandas and, if they are lucky, in packed tents or halls, where they find a roof over their head and minuscule packets of rice for sustenance. At least 21 workers have died here in the last two weeks. At the sole medical clinic, several migrant workers lay on the floor, the cause of their illnesses unknown because there was no doctor to offer a diagnosis, and virtually no medical supplies.
As many as 400,000 Indonesian migrant workers have returned to Indonesia through various entry points, according to government estimates, with the biggest surge in the last several weeks. Their unexpected appearance in Indonesia is likely to add to the nation's 40 million unemployed, out of a population of 228 million.
More deeply, the images of the young men, elderly women and distraught families being pushed out of a neighboring country where people speak a similar language, look the same and share the Muslim religion has reawakened an old debate: What is Indonesia? "Who are we if all we can export abroad is unskilled workers?" said Adi Sasono, a longtime proponent of social justice and a leader of the Association of Indonesian Muslim Intellectuals. "It means we are really a nation of coolies, and a coolie among nations." His use of the word "coolie" was deliberate, Mr. Adi said, because it echoed the evocative language of Indonesia's first president, Sukarno, the father of the current leader, Megawati Sukarnoputri. In an impassioned speech nearly 40 years ago, Sukarno said that during the colonial period, Indonesia was a "coolie between nations," moored between the continents of Asia and Australia.
"Sukarno said to stop being a coolie nation was the very reason we had to become independent, rather than become stuck on the lowest rung," Mr. Adi said.
The meek response of Sukarno's daughter to the Malaysian government's expulsion of the Indonesians has infuriated people here. During two days of talks in Bali last week, Mrs. Megawati asked Malaysia's prime minister, Mahathir Mohamad, for a reprieve for the workers and an arrangement that would help them obtain legal papers in Malaysia.
The Malaysian leader, facing an economic downturn in his own country and aware that the Indonesians were unlikely to retaliate against the expulsions, refused to yield.
"The government called the migrant workers the 'heroes' of foreign exchange," said Faiza Mardzoek, an official with Women's Solidarity for Human Rights, a Indonesian nongovernmental organization that is trying to assist the expelled workers. "But there is no real discussion with Malaysia about the workers, and no formal agreements to regulate the situation."
Ms. Mardzoek, who came to Nunukan to investigate the plight of the workers and distribute leaflets informing workers of their rights, said the migrant workers were the biggest contributors to Indonesia's foreign exchange earnings after oil, gas and wood. In many Indonesian villages, the remittances pay for new schools, roads and housing that the government is unable to finance.
The flow of Indonesians to Malaysia has a long history, with generations of families in the provinces of Sulawesi and Java sailing to Malaysia to seek their fortunes.
In recent times, labor agents have taken hold of the business of migrant workers, and here in Nunukan, where the local population is only about 80,000, nearly two dozen businesses call themselves "labor suppliers." They charge Indonesians a fee for the promise of legal work, but in fact when the Indonesians arrive in Malaysia they often lack the correct documentation and are left at the mercy of unscrupulous bosses, said Vincentius Ruing, the director of the Association of the Big Family, a local group that assists migrant workers.
Despite the hardships of their stay here in Nunukan, many of the workers said they were fearful of returning to their home provinces.
"If I go back to Sulawesi, people will ask for so many things – clothes, something special from Malaysia, and I don't have them yet," said Sumarti, 23, a cheerful young woman who said she had worked on a plantation and was planning to go back. "Things are not a problem in Malaysia as long as you can do the physical work."
On an overgrown patch of land on the outskirts of town, where the buildings peter out into tropical jungle, the Roman Catholic cemetery told of the sacrifice of the less fortunate workers. Nine fresh graves, with roughly hewn wooden crosses, bore the names of migrant workers originally from the mostly Christian island of Flores, who had died here. Thomas Mambao, 46, had worked in Sandakan, Malaysia, for 12 years, his friends said. Unmarried, he cleaned the Catholic church in his Malaysian village until he was arrested for holding an expired passport and held in prison for two weeks.
He became ill after landing in Nunukan and died three days later, his friends said. Tears in their eyes, they lighted two dozen white candles to commemorate his life.