Long Midang: At Indonesia’s Farthest Edge

Long Midang, a small Lundayeh settlement in Krayan, Nunukan, North Kalimantan, is a frontier.

In the hush of Long Midang, I heard a faint echo of Indonesia Raya - is the national anthem of Indonesia.

And I remained: here, in the deep forest of Borneo, nearly untouched. I remained in the children still speaking their mother tongue, in customs that persist through generations.

Long Midang: Indonesia at the Borderline

Long Midang. Where, exactly, is this ancestral land of the Lundayeh people?

You don’t need a map. Just imagine this: “Garuda on my chest, Malaysia in my stomach.”

That’s what we — the Espelindo team (short for Empat-Sekawan Pegiat Literasi Indonesia: Dr. Yansen TP, Masri, and Pepih — with Dodi absent) — witnessed with our own eyes.

It was midday, June 15, 2025. After checking in at the border post, our three-vehicle convoy — considered “luxury” by Jakarta standards — crossed the frontier.

The sun blazed over the Krayan highlands, but it did little to cool our resolve. We wanted to set foot at the edge — not just of geography, but of identity.

Yansen snapped a photo of me and Pepih as we danced at the borderline, like birds startled from a cempaka branch. That line — invisible but real — was carved by foreign hands: Dutch colonizers on one side, the British “White Rajahs” on the other.

“Our brothers have lived there long before any of this,” Yansen said, pointing downhill — toward Ba’ Kelalan, in Sarawak, Malaysia.

I picture Long Midang as a place absent from most maps — or at least from the nation’s mental cartography. Even for many Indonesians, the name sounds like a fragment from another world: unfamiliar, distant, maybe irrelevant. And yet, it is here — in this remote corner — that the nation holds its breath.

Long Midang, a small Lundayeh settlement in Krayan, Nunukan, North Kalimantan, is a frontier. But frontiers are not static lines. They pulse like veins — unseen but essential. They can be fragile, or resilient. Here in Long Midang, the border has many faces: sometimes somber, sometimes proud. The people speak the same Dayak Lundayeh language as those across the line in Ba’ Kelalan, Sarawak. But here, the meaning remains distinctly Indonesian.

There is irony here

There is irony here that won’t quit. From the Long Midang border checkpoint to Ba’ Kelalan is just one kilometer — an easy drive, like going to the market. But from another checkpoint at Lembudud to Ba’ Rio, also in Sarawak, it’s a 10-to-12-hour trek on foot. Distance here is not just about kilometers. It’s about access — and the arbitrary barriers drawn by politics and history.

Each week, people cross this border — for family, for football, for culture. Here, the border is not a wall. It’s a bridge. Nationalism, here, is not a slogan. It’s a way of life. A mother carries a rattan basket across the border to sell her harvest. A youth crosses to join a soccer match. An elder brings words of wisdom, repeating stories passed down long before maps drew lines.

Long Midang is a face of Indonesia rarely seen. It is not Jakarta. It is not Bali. But it is from places like this that the meaning of “Indonesia” is tested. And somehow, from this far-flung margin of the nation, Indonesia feels more real — not through skyscrapers or policy statements, but through determination and patience, the kind that never makes the evening news.

A philosopher once said, “The frontier is where civilization is tested.” At Long Midang, the test is passed not through violence, but through endurance. The primary forest still breathes here. It has not been cut, not sold. The wind still smells of clean earth. The air is not wrapped in carbon and machine roar. What they protect is deeper than wealth — it is ecology as identity.

Some call ecotourism the future. In Long Midang, it is the present — born of the past. Their forest is not an attraction; it is a home. The hills that embrace the ulayat (customary land) are not just scenic backdrops for Instagram — they are breath. The longhouses are not cultural museums — they are daily life. Conservation here is not a project; it is inheritance.

And still, they are open — to travelers, to change, to possibility. But not blindly. They know that modernity can arrive as a friend or as a thief. And so, they choose to remain hosts, not tenants, of their own land. Their ecotourism isn’t for exotic consumption, but for exchange — between guest and host, between the outside world and local wisdom.

What makes Long Midang different from its Malaysian twin — even though both are inhabited by Lundayeh Dayaks? The answer may lie in a single word: choice. The choice to stay, to remain Dayak, to remain Indonesian. They welcome cross-border ties, but they do not lose themselves in them. In a globalizing world, they prove that openness need not mean erasure.

Long Midang plays a vital role in Indonesia’s border integrity

 A remote border village in the highlands of North Borneo, Long Midang sits within Krayan District, Nunukan Regency, Indonesia. Nestled near the Malaysian frontier, this Lundayeh Dayak territory embodies both cultural continuity and geopolitical complexity. Though small in size, Long Midang plays a vital role in Indonesia’s border integrity, indigenous heritage, and ecological preservation. It stands as a living testimony to how remote communities shape national identity—quietly, but resolutely.

In Long Midang, nationalism is not rigid. It is flexible, but rooted. It knows when to share, and when to guard. Through tradition, language, craft, dance, and ritual, they express who they are. At this border, identity is not a policy — it is breath.

But the community faces threats, too. Infrastructure gaps. Limited access. The risks of unmanaged tourism. The threat of environmental disruption. Here lies another paradox: development can be a destroyer, if handled carelessly. Long Midang must choose wisely — to build without breaking.

I imagine Long Midang as an unfinished poem. Each visit reads like a new stanza. Sometimes a verse about struggle. Sometimes joy: sharing meals in the longhouse, listening to the sounds of the forest after dusk, or watching barefoot children sprint across the fields with laughter.

They don’t seek the spotlight. They seek sincerity. Not tourists, but pilgrims of values — people who come not just to look, but to learn. To learn simplicity. To learn resilience. To learn what it means to be fully human amid limitations.

In its stillness, Long Midang speaks louder than national speeches. It doesn’t shout. But it echoes something profound: that being part of this nation doesn’t always mean marching in parades. Sometimes, it just means keeping the forest. Honoring tradition. Refusing to sell your land for a shortcut.

In an age when borders blur through digital life and globalization, Long Midang reminds us that physical borders still matter. Not to divide — but to affirm that we exist. That we are present. At this quiet edge of the republic, Long Midang stands not as a surveillance post, but as a poem of presence.

Those who visit don’t leave with just photos. They return with understanding. That Indonesia is more than Jakarta and Java. That identity can be soft, not harsh. That meaning lives in quiet places.

Long Midang is far. But somehow, it brings us closer to what Indonesia truly means. *)