We fought a wildfire. Here’s what happened

By Sarasi Silvester Sinurat, GLFx Kalimantan

My breathing grows heavier as it gets harder and harder to inhale.

It’s not because of this thick N95 mask I’m wearing, or the equipment hanging from my body. It’s because of the smoke-filled air I’m drawing into my lungs.

I’m dressed in full protective gear: heat-resistant boots, heat-resistant clothing, protective goggles and a helmet.

And yet, I feel like I’m about to suffocate.

September 2023. Central Kalimantan, Indonesian Borneo.

The sky was almost cloudless that day. The sun was blazing hot, as if it were trying to compete with the flames. Smoke shrouded everything, thick and pungent with the smell of burning.

This was a forest and peatland fire. It wasn’t just a headline or a statistic – it was the reality we were facing firsthand.

I’m part of the Youth Act Kalimantan movement through the Ranu Welum Foundation. One of our goals is to help curb the constant wildfires in our area. So, in 2023, a group of us volunteered for several days to battle the flames.

Our team, called the Katuyung Firefighters, went into the field to extinguish fires, document them and learn directly from the experiences of local firefighters.

Before heading into the field, we underwent training with local firefighting volunteers. That meant task assignments and team formations every morning, alongside the Palangka Raya City Disaster Management Agency (BPBD) and the Firefighting Brigade (BPK).

But when we arrived at the scene of the fire, what I saw left me speechless.

Fighting fires in flip-flops

Before us stood several volunteers from other units. Their faces were blackened by smoke and dust, their clothes worn and soaked with sweat and hose water. They greeted us with smiles, their faces tired yet warm. 

But what truly shocked me wasn’t their smiles. It was the fact that they stood before the flames without masks or any real protective equipment.

Some were in flip-flops. Others were fighting the fire with their bare hands and whatever tools they had – sometimes just dry wood to check the soil’s strength. 

There were no helmets, no eye protection and no heat-resistant vests.

Standing there, fully protected from head to toe, I felt ashamed.

“We’re used to this,” one volunteer in his 20s laughed. “If we wear shoes, they’re too heavy, and masks make it hard to breathe. We already know the fire’s path by heart.”

Those words echoed in my head, as if this were something to be proud of, though it sounded more like painful resignation.

After all, these massive fires have burned almost every year since 1997. 

We walked through the charred landscape, seemingly treading on burning embers with each step. Scorched trees lay scattered across the ground, some collapsing with a deafening crash. The sharp scent of charcoal filled the air, mixing with the acrid smell of lingering smoke.

Meanwhile, other volunteer teams worked tirelessly, spraying water, digging into the soil and extinguishing smoldering hotspots. 

By day, the view was shrouded in thick smoke, unlike at night, when the glow of the flames lit up the sky. For some volunteers, this scene has become an almost routine part of the dry season. When drought hits, large fires almost inevitably follow.

These fires typically occur between July and October each year, though they sometimes arrive earlier or linger longer. Their timing can no longer be predicted, and each time they come, they leave an immeasurable trail of devastation for both people and nature.

Many teenage volunteers showed up, still in their school uniforms. More of them appeared as the afternoon went on. Their enthusiasm is what fuels this movement.

Every step could be your last

Our team was much better equipped than the locals, wearing full protective gear and thick masks. We stood side by side, but we weren’t truly equal. 

I was sweating from all of the protective gear I was wearing. They were sweating from being exposed to the flames and the sun.

I asked myself: do I stick out here? Do the locals feel alienated by all the gear I’m wearing?

At times, we sought shade in the remains of large, leafless trees, seeking temporary refuge from the sun’s rays amid the smoke and haze.

Every evening, we drove home to recharge and gather strength for the next day, but some volunteers stayed until nightfall. 

Taking off my N95 mask for the first time all day, I gasped – not just from exhaustion, but also because it felt suffocating.

I remembered the faces of the volunteers covered in dust, but full of spirit. I imagined their lungs filled with PM2.5, the deadly air pollution that claims more than 4 million lives every year.

The next day, we returned to the scene of the fire.

The wildfires in Borneo are peat fires, and peat is no ordinary soil. It’s like a sponge: it may look dry on the surface, but it can be hot and wet beneath. That means a fire can spread silently across peatlands without any visible signs.

Peat fires are especially dangerous during the day, when they’re invisible, whereas you can easily see steam rising from the ground at night.

If you’re not careful, every step could be your last. Many volunteers have fallen into hidden fire pits, which are hard to detect unless you’re familiar with their distinctive smell or small cracks in the soil.

But people keep coming to help. Day after day. Without insurance. Without personal protective equipment (PPE). They come because they believe saving lives is more important than their own fear.

If not us, who?

Every day, before setting off, we had a small team internal briefing, followed by a large team briefing at the BPBD. From there, we divided tasks and decided where we would be tackling the fires.

Our pre-briefing ritual consisted of sitting in a circle and applying balm to our necks, knees and backs. We all still felt stiff from the previous day’s work. Sometimes we also took vitamins and inhaled oxygen to alleviate our shortness of breath.

But it wasn’t just our bodies that felt heavy. Our hearts did, too.

“We’ll carry on where we left off yesterday,” said Adit, one of our team members. “I’ve got information from the BPK group that the fire is growing, and many trees have fallen. Water is scarce.”

Ready or not, we set off, well aware of the risks. If not us, who else was going to do it?

We walked through an area being consumed by fire. 

We stuck to our instructions: tread carefully. What looks like solid ground could turn out to be hollow. One misstep could send you sinking into the burning embers.

I heard screams ahead. For a moment, I stood frozen. I didn’t know what was happening. All I could do was pray that we were all safe.

As we continued walking, the volunteer beside me wiped the sweat off his unmasked face with his dirty hands.

I remembered how, in the city, we always had access to high-quality masks with multiple filters and air vents. In these remote areas, the locals don’t wear masks at all as they can’t afford them. 

The volunteer turned to me.

“Let’s take a break, but don’t get too close to the hole. See that small crack?” 

I nodded. 

We sat side by side, staring at the small fire still burning in the distance.

“Sometimes I get scared too,” he admitted softly, “scared I won’t make it home. But if we don’t come here, then who will?”

I wasn’t just learning about an ecological crisis but also seeing the humanity that we often forget.

Behind every forest fire statistic, there are people. There are burned bodies. Lungs blackened. Families waiting anxiously for an update.

As the night wore on, I began to take notes – not just of data, but also to jot down my thoughts, feelings and memories. Faces, moments, fear, anger and my sense of responsibility.

It was then that we realized this experience needed to be more than just a story. We wanted to do more than document this. We wanted to change things. 

Igniting justice

I still remember the heavy breathing of the volunteer beside me one night as we sat amid the embers and thick smoke. 

My mask was still stuck to my face, damp and suffocating. Meanwhile, without a mask, he was breathing more heavily than me. But still, he kept smiling.

“Tomorrow, we’ll start from the edge – we’ll build a barrier,” he said, as if nothing had happened today.

I wanted to respond, but my throat was too tight to speak, clogged with tiny particles of peat dust.

That brief taste of firefighting changed my life forever.

Today, I work with young Indigenous people to preserve their lands and forests, but it breaks my heart that the peatlands that burn every year will be impossible to restore.  

I used to think of the fires as a policy issue. Now, I think of it as a story filled with faces I’ll never forget. The rain has started to fall, but the scars across the landscape will take generations to heal.

For a decade now, our team has distributed N95 masks and protective helmets to volunteers. Our team regularly measures air pollution levels around Palangka Raya, where we’re based, using an air quality detector, and the results can be jaw-dropping. 

We’ve seen readings reaching 600 micrograms per cubic meter. That’s not air. It’s poison floating in the air.

We’ve held dialogues and focus group discussions with the volunteer firefighters to learn about their needs. 

One volunteer told us: “We need insurance. We need PPE. We also have families waiting for us.”

Those words shook me. Not just because they were true, but because these volunteers have rarely been given the space to voice them. They act selflessly, but that doesn’t mean they should keep sacrificing themselves.

We took things a step further. Our team has written a policy brief aimed at local decision makers.

Our demands are clear: firefighters must be given access to universal healthcare and social security. They should also be provided with PPE that meets Indonesian national standards.

Our policy brief isn’t the final answer, but it’s the beginning. The beginning of collective courage to say that solidarity isn’t enough – we must step up to protect one another.

We want firefighters in Central Kalimantan and across Indonesia to carry out their work without risking their own lives. We want them to get home safe and to tend to their wounds without waiting for charity.

I know this struggle won’t be easy. Some might scoff at us: “volunteers are supposed to be voluntary.”

But shouldn’t they be better protected because they’re volunteering their time for a good cause?

Unpaid work is work – and volunteers deserve labor rights, too.