Collective Memory,

Marginality, and
Spatial Politics in
Urban Indonesia.
Edited by
Manneke Budiman · Abidin Kusno
Collective Memory, Marginality, and Spatial
Politics in Urban Indonesia.
Manneke Budiman • Abidin Kusno
Editors

Collective Memory,
Marginality, and
Spatial Politics in
Urban Indonesia.
Editors
Manneke Budiman Abidin Kusno
Faculty of Humanities Faculty of Environmental Studies
Universitas Indonesia York University
Jakarta, Indonesia Toronto, ON, Canada

This work was supported by Universitas Indonesia.

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 Preface and Acknowledgment

This edited volume is the result of a series of workshops on urban spatial

politics in Indonesia organized by the Faculty of Humanities at the
Universitas Indonesia (UI) in 2018 and 2019. It consists of papers by
participants who worked together with their graduate students as co-­
authors. Each chapter offers its own unique perspective of the city as it
tries to make sense of urban change in Indonesian cities from the colonial
era to the current post-Reformasi time. Together they show how urban
expansion and development have resulted in more complex social and eco-
nomic problems and how politics and processes of urbanization have
delivered significant new life to the urban population but also failed to
deliver prosperity and equality to many of the city’s inhabitants, especially
to those living in the margin of the city.
This book acknowledges that the city is the most monumental product
of modernity. It offers unlimited possibilities but at the same time creates
multidimensional problems. It blurs the line between opportunities and
challenges, leaving only ambiguities and contradictions in the assumption
of urban modernity. Has the city become a home for more and more
Indonesians? In some ways, due to rapid urbanization, the city has become
a home (rumah) for most of its inhabitants, replacing the earlier associa-
tion of hometown with rural-based environment (kampung halaman).
For many inhabitants of Jakarta, “going back to hometown” (mudik) to
villages in the month of Ramadan, for instance, has increasingly become
an ordeal of an annual ritual; it is more and more expensive and emotion-
ally taxing due to the dramatic rise in the price of food and goods as well

v
vi PREFACE AND ACKNOWLEDGMENT

as the inevitable travel costs associated with returning to their hometowns.

Coming back to Jakarta at the end of the Ramadan vacation, paradoxically,
has gained more substance as it means returning home after a long and
tiring mudik.
While city administrators never stop planning and building their cities
to supposedly provide more comfort and ease for city dwellers, somehow
the city seems to develop its own way of resisting regulation and control.
In the midst of columns of high rises and rows of busy streets, signs of
restlessness, unpredictability, and intractability reign. Living under multi-­
layered social inequalities, the urban multitudes play out different levels of
agency and ways of responding to governmentality. They voice their con-
cerns in their own ways, often underground as undercurrents, not so
much to avoid suppression but simply because their agencies are too com-
plex and dynamic to be effectively understood or regulated.
Major cities across the archipelago and outside the capital city of Jakarta
have also rapidly developed and their populations are highly mobile.
Today, Jakarta is not the sole model for city management, nor it is the only
center of the country. For many Indonesians, Jakarta is only one part of
larger patterns of opportunities and challenges that help Indonesian cities
to grow in the first place. It is always intriguing to understand how
Indonesian cities develop from time to time, but can we gain an adequate
understanding of how cities evolve without first understanding the histori-
cal, political, social, and economic factors in different periods that have
continuously shaped those cities and charted their maps to the future.
Indonesians who grew up in different periods are still able to talk about
the “old” and the “new” when they meet in a cross-generational family
setting. They know that their urban life should be located in both spatial
and temporal dimensions. “What is new” or “unlike before” is the unspo-
ken framework of conversations as Indonesians make sense of the time and
space within which they are embedded. They know well that the city is not
a void or a passive space but is always vibrant and in motion. Writing about
the city the authors are interested in is a way of recording their own time
and movement in space, a process that materializes events and offers a
sense of what is in the process of happening. Together they show in their
essays that time (the historians’ compass) is not the only constitutive actor
that gives shape to cities and that its many spaces, big and small, also play
a role in giving the city its past and history. This volume invites readers to
reflect on time and space but also movement in an arena that is action-­
packed—the city.
 PREFACE AND ACKNOWLEDGMENT vii

Finally, we would like to note that most of the studies on Indonesian

urbanism are written and published by non-Indonesian scholars, which
may give a false impression that urban studies is a discipline that is poorly
developed in this country. This volume seeks to overcome such a percep-
tion by intentionally putting together a volume with Indonesian contribu-
tors only to offer their perspectives on Indonesian cities. This exclusivity is
intended to compensate for the lack of literature on Indonesian urban
studies published by Indonesian scholars, especially in the English
language.
The Editors would like to thank Enago International for its editing
service as well as substantive feedback on each of the chapters. We would
like to express our gratitude to the Vice-Rector of Research and Innovation
at the Universitas Indonesia for providing generous funds that made the
research, workshop series, and this publication possible in the first place.
Also playing an instrumental part in the process is the York Centre for
Asian Research (YCAR) of York University, Toronto, through its Research
Collaboration Fellowship and the Social Sciences and Humanities Research
Council of Canada for supporting the key research meetings prior to the
volume’s publication. We thank Alicia Filipowich at YCAR for her gener-
ous assistance of research and administrative support. We also thank two
anonymous reviewers for comments on the earlier version of the manu-
script. Lastly, we are deeply indebted to the individuals who have con-
stantly assisted us from the beginning to the end with all of the minute
details of the technical and administrative matters in Indonesia: Dr. Diah
Ayu Maharani, Dr. Shury Mariasih Gietty Tambunan, and Ms. Pratidina
Sekar Pembayun. Without them, this volume would not have been
possible.

Jakarta, Indonesia Manneke Budiman

Toronto, ON, Canada  Abidin Kusno
 Contents

1 Introduction:
 Collective Memory, Marginality, and Spatial
Politics in Urban Indonesia  1
Manneke Budiman and Abidin Kusno

Part I Urban Regeneration and Collective Memory  25

2 T
 he Mobility of Orkes Dangdut Gerobak in the Urban
Space: Commodification of Female Sexuality and
Patriarchal Capitalism 27
Muhammad Syahrul Munir and Shuri Mariasih Gietty
Tambunan

3 Orang Rantai in Sawahlunto: A State-­Sponsored

Heritage City and the Politics of Collective Memory 41
Agseora Ediyen and Shuri Mariasih Gietty Tambunan

4 Gangsters,
 Music, and Aremania: Modernity and the
Dynamics of Arek Malang to Defend their Existence
(1970–2000) 55
Faishal Hilmy Maulida

ix
x Contents

5 Urban
 Regeneration and Images of the “Other” in Cek
Toko Sebelah (2016) 69
Shuri Mariasih Gietty Tambunan and Maria Regina Widhiasti

Part II Marginality and the Other Archives  85

6 Prostitution
 and Its Social Impact in Gang Dolly,
Surabaya (1967–1999) 87
Mala Hayati and Tri Wahyuning Mudaryanti

7 Poverty,
 Criminality, and Prostitution: Impacts of the
Development of Batam as an Industrial City (1971–1998) 99
Anita Ahmad and Didik Pradjoko

8 Pondok
 Indah and Pondok Pinang from 1973 to 1997:
Developing Through Interdependency113
Isti Sri Ulfiarti, Tri Wahyuning Mudaryanti, and
R. Tuty Nur Mutia Enoch Muas

9 Community-Based
 Practices of Archiving Indonesian
Popular Music: Redefining the Notion of Indonesia129
Ignatius Aditya Adhiyatmaka and Lilawati Kurnia

Part III New Mood, Medium, and Media 143

10 Traditional
 Market as a Public Space: Thomas Karsten’s
Design for Johar Market in Semarang (1906–1939)145
Annisa Maghfira Surendro and Bondan Kanumoyoso

11 Representation of Mooi Indie in Nature-­Based Tourism:

Development of Tourism in Bandung from 1925 to 1941161
Esti Indah Puji Lestari, Tri Wahyuning Mudaryanti, and
R. Tuty Nur Mutia Enoch Muas
 Contents  xi

12 The
 2017 Jakarta Gubernatorial Election: The
Production of Post-Truth and the Islamic, Urban,
Middle-Class Identity177
Gigay Citta Acikgenc and Herdito Sandi Pratama

13 Religion
 in Urban Politics: Social Media and Its
Regulatory Debates in the Aftermath of the 2017 Jakarta
Gubernatorial Election193
Vience Mutiara Rumata, Karman, and
Ashwin S. Sastrosubroto

Index213
 Notes on Contributors

Gigay Citta Acikgenc is a graduate of the postgraduate program in phi-

lisophy and wrote a thesis on the epistemology of testimony. Her other
research interests include the philosophy of social science and feminism.
Ignatius Aditya Adhiyatmaka is a graduate of the cultural studies pro-
gram at Universitas Indonesia. He also graduated from Institut Seni
Indonesia Yogyakarta majoring in ethnomusicology. He is interested in
studying contemporary musical works that feature the historicity and
musical identities of Surakarta society. His interest in the interrelation of
traditional and popular music in the context of Indonesian culture has
inspired him to conduct an interdisciplinary study on the identity of the
culture shaped by music.
Anita Ahmad completed her study in 2016 in the field of history from
Universitas Indonesia. Her thesis is titled Economic Development,
Criminality, and Prostitution: The Impacts of the Development of Batam
Industrial City, 1971–1998.
Manneke Budiman is Professor of Literature and Cultural Studies in the
Faculty of Humanities at Universitas Indonesia. He has conducted research
on comparative literature, youth culture, contemporary Indonesian litera-
ture, media studies, indigenous studies, nationalism and postcolonialism,
gender studies, and translation studies.
Agseora Ediyen graduated from the postgraduate program of the
Department of Literature in the Faculty of Humanities at Universitas

xiii
xiv NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS

Indonesia. Her research interests include issues related to cultural policy,

city transformation, and cultural heritage.
Shuri Mariasih Gietty Tambunan is an Associate Professor in the
English Studies Program and postgraduate program in literature of the
Faculty of Humanities at Universitas Indonesia. Her research focuses on
the transnational flow of cultural products in Asia.
Mala Hayati completed her study in the Department of History of the
Faculty of Humanities at Universitas Indonesia in 2016. Her research
focused on the history of Indonesia. Her primary interest is the history
of cities.
Bondan Kanumoyoso is a lecturer and researcher in the Department of
History at the University of Indonesia. He received his bachelor’s degree
from the Department of History at the University of Indonesia in 1996.
Following this, he completed the Advanced Master Program (2002) and
received a PhD in history (2011) from Leiden University. His main inter-
ests are socioeconomic history, colonial history, and contemporary
Indonesian history.
Karman is a researcher at the National Research and Innovation Agency
(BRIN). His area of interest is media and communication. He received a
PhD in Communication from Universitas Indonesia.
Lilawati Kurnia is a professor in the Department of German and Cultural
Studies of the Faculty of Humanities at Universitas Indonesia. She received
her PhD from the Faculty of Humanities at Universitas Indonesia and her
Magister Artium from Gesamthochschule Kassel in Germany. Her research
interests include popular culture, multiculturalism, comparative literature,
batik, and translation.
Abidin Kusno is a professor in the Faculty of Environmental and Urban
Change at York University, Toronto, Canada, and former director of the
York Centre for Asian Research. His research interests include politics and
the culture of architecture, urban design, and planning. His research
focuses on Indonesia, particularly Jakarta.
Esti Indah Puji Lestari was born in Ponorogo on May 5, 1995. She
received a bachelor’s degree in history from Universitas Indonesia and a
master’s degree in the same field or in communications. Her research
interests are tourism history, colonial history, and social lifestyle. In addi-
tion to historical research, she is passionate about public speaking.
 NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS xv

Faishal Hilmy Maulida is a graduate of the postgraduate program of the

Department of History in the Faculty of Humanities at Universitas
Indonesia. His research focuses on social political history in modern
Indonesia.
R. Tuty Nur Mutia Enoch Muas is a Professor in Chinese Studies at the
University of Indonesia. She has published numerous studies in national
journals as well as a book entitled Diplomasi tanpa Kehilangan Muka:
Peran Konsep “Mianzi” di Balik Normalisasi Hubungan Diplomatik
Tiongkok-Indonesia Tahun 1990 in 2015. She earned her undergraduate
degree in Chinese literature and her master’s and doctorate degrees in his-
tory from Universitas Indonesia.
Tri Wahyuning Mudaryanti is a retired lecturer in the Department of
History at Universitas Indonesia. She graduated in history studies in 1979
and received a master’s degree in anthropology from Universitas Indonesia
in 1993. In 2015, she received a doctorate from Gadjah Mada University.
Some of her studies have been published in several books.
Muhammad Syahrul Munir received his master’s degree from the
Faculty of Humanities at Universitas Indonesia in 2017. His postgraduate
research focused on gerobak dangdut as an articulation of urban mobility
within the modern, urban context.
Didik Pradjoko was born in Surabaya on June 14, 1969. He earned his
bachelor’s degree in historical studies from Universitas Indonesia and
earned his master’s degree (2003) and a doctorate (2015) in history from
the Faculty of Letters Universitas Indonesia. Since 1996, he has been
teaching in the History Studies Program at Universitas Indonesia, special-
izing in maritime history. In 2017, he published an article on migration
history in the region of the Sawu Sea in the Journal of Maritime Studies
and National Integration.
Herdito Sandi Pratama was born in Jakarta on August 4, 1986.
Currently, he teaches undergraduate and graduate courses in the
Department of Philosophy of the Faculty of Humanities at Universitas
Indonesia. His courses include the philosophy of economics, the philoso-
phy of science and methodology, epistemology (the theory of knowledge),
and analytical philosophy. He is currently the head of the Postgraduate
Program of Philosophy of the Faculty of Humanities at Universitas
Indonesia.
xvi NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS

Vience Mutiara Rumata is a researcher at the National Research and

Innovation Agency (BRIN). She completed her bachelor’s degree in
Management Communication at the University of Padjadjaran (Indonesia)
in 2006. She was awarded an Australia Awards Scholarship in 2013 and
completed her master’s degree in global media communication at the
University of Melbourne in 2015. Her research interests include media
and communication as well as internet governance, digital behavior, the
societal impact of ICT, and digital culture.
Ashwin S. Sastrosubroto is a researcher at the National Research and
Innovation Agency (BRIN). He is the chairman of the Telkom University
Research Center of the ICT Business and Public Policy and a steering
committee member of the ASEAN ICT Virtual Organization and joint
ICT research centers in ASEAN and NICT Japan. He also served as a
member of the Indonesian National ICT Council. His main research
interests are in the field of information and communication technology
governance, including public policies and regulations.
Annisa Maghfira Surendro completed her study in history from the
Department of History at the Universitas Indonesia in 2017. Her research
interests include the colonial history of Indonesia, urban history, and
social history. Currently, she is working as an independent researcher
based in Jakarta.
Isti Sri Ulfiarti graduated from the Department of History at Universitas
Indonesia in 2017. Isti has conducted three studies and written essays and
several articles for Opini Mahasiswa, a national newspaper.
Maria Regina Widhiasti is a lecturer in the German Studies Program of
the Faculty of Humanities at Universitas Indonesia. Her research focuses
on the representation and identity of minorities in popular culture texts
and practices.
 CHAPTER 1

Introduction: Collective Memory,

Marginality, and Spatial Politics in Urban
Indonesia

Manneke Budiman and Abidin Kusno

Urban studies in Indonesia has long been dominated by social sciences.

This came as a result of the nation’s significant demographic shift from
rural to urban and the need for research aimed at generating new policy to
address the changes in society. Since the 1960s, due to urbanization, con-
siderable attention has been given to rural–urban migration issues, for
example, how to integrate rural migrants into urban society including pro-
viding them with needed services. Informed by a worldwide trend in the
postwar era, disciplines such as anthropology, economics, geography, and
sociology have focused on issues of urban development, modernization,

M. Budiman (*)
Faculty of Humanities, Universitas Indonesia, Jakarta, Indonesia
e-mail: [email protected]
A. Kusno
Faculty of Environmental Studies, York University, Toronto, ON, Canada
e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s) 2025 1

M. Budiman, A. Kusno (eds.), Collective Memory, Marginality, and
Spatial Politics in Urban Indonesia.,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-97-4304-9_1
2 M. BUDIMAN AND A. KUSNO

and the informal sector. Scholars in these fields seek to contribute to urban
policy formulation and programming (for a report on urban studies in
Indonesia, see Mboi and Smith (1994); see also Stren (1998) for a survey
of urban research trends in developing countries).
However, although worldwide trends (in part generated by the objec-
tives of global institutions or foreign donors) play important roles in shap-
ing urban knowledge, the characteristics and quality of the research by
Indonesian researchers are often distinctive because of the influences of
local language, culture, and politics. This is particularly the case for
research in the humanities field because the audience does not comprise
policy makers and the research methods are often qualitative and specific
rather than driven by generalization and applicability or practicality.
Historians and scholars in Cultural Studies address policy issues less
directly; their work can overlap with economic or policy objectives, but
they most directly engage with the making and unmaking of public cul-
ture. They bring the diverse experiences of urban life and the meanings,
interests, and actions associated with them into contact, sometimes as
negotiation and transaction and sometimes as confrontation and conflict.
They explore these relationships often beyond a dichotomy between the
other and the self or the periphery and the center.
Furthermore, they see these relationships as reciprocal and complex
and not easily resolved by policy or technocratic proposition. Thus, this
book reveals the contested cultures of city life. We see this focus as a con-
tribution of the humanities field to Indonesian urban studies. We assem-
bled a group of researchers from different humanities disciplines at
Universitas Indonesia to contribute to this volume. Our main motivation
is the conviction that humanities scholars offer individual approaches to
the deep histories and current developments of urban areas that we often
do not know well enough. We are encouraged by the responses of col-
leagues in the Humanities to engage with “urban studies” as an amor-
phous interdisciplinary field. We appreciate their motivation to work
collaboratively with their graduate students from the broad domain of
humanities, such as cultural studies, literature, communication and media,
history, and philosophy. While the characteristic of each of their discipline
is traceable in the contribution to this volume, the processes of writing and
working together for this volume have produced a work that is, as a
whole, intersectional and characteristically “urban.” As all the contribu-
tors are Indonesian researchers residing in Indonesia, we asked three ques-
tions at the outset of this research program: What is significant about
 1 INTRODUCTION: COLLECTIVE MEMORY, MARGINALITY, AND SPATIAL… 3

Indonesian researchers, and what is distinctive about their humanities

background? What do they seek to contribute to the field of Indonesian
urban studies, which has largely been dominated by social sciences?
The authors responded in various ways through the subjects of their
choice. They are motivated by concerns and curiosities regarding subjects
and issues that have been either forgotten or considered unimportant for
understanding the present. A central component in their analyses, as indi-
cated above, is culture, which implies “contestation, critique, and con-
flict” (Huyssen, 2008, p. 3). The phenomena we call cultures are in fact
political because they occur within societal spheres that interact with con-
flicting interests and values. No matter how specific their contribution is
to the field of Indonesian urban studies, their work is part of a larger cur-
rents of thoughts that have been circulating in the academic world.

Currents of Thought
With the focus on contestation, critique, and conflict, this book seeks to
contribute to the field of critical urban studies in postcolonial contexts. os
Postcolonial urban studies develop critical perspectives on the impacts
of colonialism as represented by the uneven urbanization and social and
environmental injustices that exist today in cities in the Global
South. Influenced by Marxian political economy, postcolonial urban stud-
ies seek to emphasize the specificity of cities in the Global South as not
merely victims of capitalism-driven economic inequality, but also how cul-
tures and identities are formed, and societal orders are structured, in ways
that are often too complex for a generalized or globalized Marxist
urban political economy approach to substantively capture (for a Marxian
political economy approach see, among others, Castells, 1977; Harvey,
1973, 2005; Davis 2005; and Miller 2000). In recent decades, scholars in
postcolonial cultural studies have sought to enrich Marxist urban political
economy by mobilizing a range of critiques that problematize the ten-
dency to homogenize the production of capitalism’s social and urban
forms and for giving scant attention to local contexts and histories.
Jennifer Robinson (2002), for instance, offers a critique of global cities
literature and a call for more appreciation of “ordinary cities.” Robinson
calls for understanding locality on its own individual terms have generated
fields such as “Southern theory” (Watson, 2016), “subaltern urbanism”
(Roy, 2011), and a less hierarchical “comparative urbanism” (McFarlane,
2010; Robinson, 2022).
4 M. BUDIMAN AND A. KUSNO

Instead of viewing postcolonial cities as products of imported urban-

ism, comparative urbanists show how people translated, often exception-
ally, foreign terms, or concepts for their own cities (Roy & Ong, 2011; see
also Huyssen (2008)). In the field of economic geography, instead of
“suburbanization,” scholars have used terms such as “extended metropo-
lis” (Ginsburg et al., 1991), “mega-urban regions” (Jones & Douglass,
2008), and “desakota” (McGee et al., 1991) to describe the different
urban forms and social norms that emerged out of the interaction between
local and global forces, which overtime have produced different urban life
and constituted “messy urbanism” (Chalana & Hou, 2016).
The study of cities in Indonesia is inseparable from these recent cur-
rents of thought in urban studies, and this book seeks to contribute to the
study by presenting works by Indonesian scholars.

Indonesian Urban Studies

There is no lack of literature on Indonesian cities written in English,
although it is fair to acknowledge that Jakarta and other major cities in
Java have received the most attention. Overseas scholars of urban studies
in Indonesia have contributed numerous ideas for scholars in Indonesia to
develop their own approaches to Indonesian cities, such as, among others:
Abeyasekere (1987), Barker (1998, 2018), Colombijn (1994, 2010),
Colombijn et al. (2005), Dick (2003), Evers and Korff (2000), Geertz
(1965), Hellman et al. (2018), McGee (1967), McGee et al. (1991), Coté
et al. (2017), Jellinek (1991), Leaf (1992, 1993), Lee (2016), Lim and
Padawangi (2008), Milone (1981), Mrazek (2002), Murray (1991), Nas
(known as the “godfather” of Indonesian urban studies; 1986, 1993,
1995), Nas & Grijns (2000), Padawangi (2013, 2021), Peters (2013),
Reid (1980), Roitman and Rukmana (with contributions mostly
from scholars in Indonesia; 2023), Van Roosmalen (2008), Silver (2008),
Simone (2009, 2014), Taylor (1983), and Wertheim (1958). These
authors’ examinations increased scholarly sensitivity to the undercurrents
that prevail in the cities of Indonesia. They contributed urban themes such
as merantau (“migration”), desakota, mega-urbanization, urban involu-
tion, and urban symbolism (see a survey by Nas and Boender (2001), who
sought to place Indonesian cities in the urban theory discourse).
The diverse reference lists that end each chapter in this book reflect the
importance of the contributions of scholars residing outside Indonesia.
What we have learned from this wide range of scholarly endeavors is that
 1 INTRODUCTION: COLLECTIVE MEMORY, MARGINALITY, AND SPATIAL… 5

distinctive and novel responses to urban changes in Indonesia should by no

means be the preserve of indigenous scholars, although they should form
an important part of their own scholarly endeavors. We remain aware of
the Dutch sociologist Wertheim (1987), who highlighted two weaknesses
in Peter Nas’s (1986) book, Indonesian City: Studies in Urban Development
and Planning: the absence of Indonesian contributors and the lack of
attention to the city as an arena of conflicts. Wertheim hoped that efforts
to investigate cityscapes through a critical perspective would continue after
Indonesia’s independence, and he encouraged Indonesian scholars to con-
tribute by offering their own analyses of urban changes in postcolonial
Indonesia. Wertheim himself perceived Indonesian cities as a product of
continuity between the colonial and postcolonial eras. For him, the
Indonesian New Order administration (1966–1998, and beyond) appeared
to be largely appropriating and sustaining the practices of the Dutch colo-
nial government.
Notably, this continuum paradigm is a reminder that today’s spaces are
built on a framework of colonial control. Urban spaces are shaped in the
images of their rulers and reflect the prevailing authoritative structures.
Yet as this book will demonstrate, the production of space in post-Suharto
Jakarta is influenced by power in now-decentralized forms based on mar-
ket impacts, elite control (in collaboration with national, regional and
local authorities), entrepreneurial authority, the clout of mass organiza-
tions, and the supremacy of the people. Power is not always in the hand of
a singular ruler or a corporatist state. The city is an arena of conflicts that
involve multiple actors.
As for Wertheim’s (1987) concern about the lack of indigenous schol-
ars in urban studies literature, today, a wide range of Indonesian scholars
are generating studies of urban Indonesia. Indeed, Nas’s (2000, 2002)
later books on Indonesian cities have included Indonesian scholars.
Additionally, and also as if in response to Wertheim’s call for more
Indonesian scholars writing about Indonesian cities, in the early 2000s,
the Dutch government collaborated with Gadjah Mada and Airlangga
universities in Indonesia, through the Netherlands Institute for War
Documentation, to examine the role of cities in the context of “Indonesia
across orders” (Colombijn et al., 2005).
This collaboration between Dutch and Indonesian scholars aimed to
address Indonesia’s processes of (de)colonization, and it produced impor-
tant research texts particularly on urban history. Scholars such as Purwanto
(2004), Basundoro (2009), Husain (2010), and Fakih (2005) among
6 M. BUDIMAN AND A. KUSNO

other described the development of cities in Indonesia in the colonial era

and at the beginning of the postcolonial period, thereby continuing the
tradition of city observers such as Handinoto (2015), Kuntowijoyo
(2000), Soemardjan (2009), Soerjo (1983), Surjomihardjo (2008).
Recently, Basundoro (2019) provided a comprehensive survey of
Indonesian urban studies since colonial times including notes on their
publishers. Basundoro (2019) also documented the contributions of
Yogyakarta and the city’s dedicated publishers (such as Ombak Press
Yogyakarta) in disseminating works on urban history by young Indonesian
scholars. Some of them have advanced Sartono Kartodirdjo’s work on
rural communities by shifting attention to the urban subaltern to account
for cities as the arena of conflicts.
Most recently, Padawangi (2021) and Batubara and Handriana (2021)
have emphasized the importance of linking agrarian studies with urban
studies offering thus an intertwining rural–urban analysis. We also recog-
nize the work by experts in professional disciplines such as architecture
and urban planning. The works of Firman (2004, 2009), Hudalah and
Woltjer (2007), Kusumawijaya (2006), Silas (1996), and Santoso (2006),
among others have produced significant works in the literature that under-
girded the present book’s approach to comprehending the development
of the Indonesian cityscape.
What we have learned from them is how the contributions of profes-
sionals who (often work “under” the state or private developers but are
not dictated by them) shape urban forms and social life. The government
or private business groups might appropriate their ideas for urban regen-
eration, but their wisdom—particularly in architecture and planning—
stands, as reflected by the scholars who contributed to the present volume.
Today, the field of urban studies is not only the domain of academics.
Activists, artists, journalists, community leaders, and freelance writers have
expanded the field and developed their own perspectives, often in collabo-
ration with academics (see Kusno et al. (2011) and Budianta and Hapsarani
(2018)). They have given voice to critical and theoretical local perspec-
tives on the historiography of (de)colonization. In the art world, ruan-
grupa’s breakthrough oeuvre of writings, such as the Jurnal Karbon on the
city of Jakarta, has helped open up new areas of discussions on the city’s
culture. These works are performative and participatory in nature, and
they engage readers in the study of urban spaces, especially through
themes of Jakarta’s art, identity, and politics. Meanwhile, urban activists
such as Sri Palupi (Ecosoc Rights), the Urban Poor Consortium, Rujak,
 1 INTRODUCTION: COLLECTIVE MEMORY, MARGINALITY, AND SPATIAL… 7

and Forum Kota document injustice in the city and present power as an
essential theme in all discourses relating to the cities of Indonesia.
Furthermore, Indonesian urban studies is essentially inseparable from
the studies of the urban kampungs, since in all of the Indonesian cities,
kampung primarily serves as the support system that helps cities continue
to flourish and develop in terms of both social and economic aspects.
Urban kampungs represent the resilience of the residual, that is, local com-
munity traditions, which refuses to be completely done away with despite
the rapid urbanization processes that take place in the city. In addition,
even though kampungs have always had to come to terms with uncertainty
about their survival due to their ever-shrinking space caused by new high-­
rise developments that surround them, kampungs have also for a long time
been providers of affordable food and rooms for the subsistence of mil-
lions of lower-middle and middle-level workers whose productivity keeps
the city’s business and economy going.
Some of the chapters in this volume demonstrate concrete awareness of
the importance of kampungs for urban sustainability and discuss typical
urban kampung issues, such as lokalisasi (red-light area), traditional mar-
ket, and urban phenomena that are rooted in kampung tradition such as
orkes dangdut gerobak. Newberry (2018) introduced the concept of “kam-
pung class,” which primarily comprise “lower-class communities” whose
existence in the city persists amidst the social and political change that
happen to the nation. Urban kampungs have their own history that gives
shape to their informality, sense of solidarity, and governmentality (2018,
p. 193). The “rhythm of kampung life” in the heart of the urban setting,
in Newberry’s view, serves as an invisible and immaterial infrastructure
that supports the life of the city as a whole. Such a distinctive role that
kampungs play in the urban context was further underlined by Kusno,
who defined kampung as an “intermediate space” in which both the
“shared and conflicting interests of the urban dwellers”, as well as the
informality of the everyday life of urban communities and the “normative
urbanization” are mediated, resulting in the phenomenon of “middling
urbanism” (2019, p. 76).
With the present volume, all the contributors aimed to continue the
tradition of critical writing on cities by reinstituting some previously raised
themes to study Indonesian cities: urban centers as conflict arenas traced
through the functioning of a city as the cause and effect of the conflicts
and how urban spaces become battlefields as well as grounds of resistance
and conciliation. The writings collected in this book depict the intimate
8 M. BUDIMAN AND A. KUSNO

associations among culture, politics, and urban spaces. In this context,

politics is not limited to state dogma or activities; the term encompasses
the everyday vernacular framework and the policies advocated or put forth
by activists, professionals, business entities, and communities.
In this sense, the political becomes difficult to distinguish from the
cultural. The book further examines how different social groups, with and
without intergroup linkages and consciously or otherwise, produce urban
spaces that influence state politics and social relationships whether directly
or indirectly. We have discussed how Indonesia as a nation has not been
the developer of all of its urban spaces, but neither individuals nor groups
of experts alone conceive the transformations of cities. In the same sense,
the dynamics of the city are not entirely attributable to the effects of mar-
kets, economic progress, and technology. Urban changes are also often
caused by crises of power that generate vigorous defenses and criticisms of
the ruling system. Nevertheless, the state machinery has always
sought to exploit the interests of experts, businessmen, and society at large
to confront crises and strengthen its position. Therefore, urban spaces are
co-produced by varied parties, but the authorities appropriate them
through development, glory, and order. Complementing previous works,
our aim with this book is to elucidate how the state often interprets spaces
created by diverse parties as a new stage of overcoming the crises of power.
In the following section, we summarize the chapters in each of the
three themes of the book as three collections. The first, Urban Regeneration
and Collective Memory, refers to the link between the desire to revitalize
or rebrand urban sites and the accompanying requirements to displace col-
lective memories. The four chapters that reflect this theme show the efforts
of communities affected by urban regeneration to keep living by establish-
ing their identities in arenas of conflicts of interest. They show the ability
of communities to represent their collective memories to build relation-
ships in the fight against marginalization.
The second set of chapters, titled Marginality and the Other Archives,
discusses the places of otherness that are established through uneven
power relationships with conceived or planned spaces. They show how
players, materials, and circumstances that are not reflected in official plan-
ning documents produce different spaces, different activities, and different
memories.
The third section of the book, New Mood, Medium, and Media, con-
sists of five essays on the effects of constructing new spaces, both physical
and virtual, for social change. The first two chapters consider efforts in
 1 INTRODUCTION: COLLECTIVE MEMORY, MARGINALITY, AND SPATIAL… 9

colonial time by elites, professionals, and community leaders to spatialize

a “new age” in response to the new challenges of the times. The last two
consider the contemporary activities of social media citizens (netizens) as
participants in the “information age” and “network society” in practicing
the new politics of identity, which has profoundly shaped the political lives
of both cities and the nation.

Urban Regeneration and Collective Memory

In this book, memory is distinct from history because it is related to nar-
ratives of marginality and daily life. Memory is often invisible and tends to
disappear because it blends in with diverse and contradictory activities and
spaces; it survives time because it lives in daily life as a collective memory.
Even so, memory—more precisely, collective memory—can become the
basis of identity formation processes that often also drive communities.
Such actions can oppose hegemonic spaces by standing outside them in
time. Urban regeneration and collective memory are thus related. Urban
regeneration can be interpreted as an alliance of interested parties to trans-
form space and change consciousness.
Meanwhile, collective memory refers to past events (whether experi-
enced or not, as with traditions) that are not always integrated or formal
but are often strong enough to influence current actions and future ideas.
Memory often influences or gives context to resistance and alternative
imaginaries. The collection of writings in this section considers the
working-­class music dangdut gerobak (Chap. 2); working-class identity
formation in a mining town (Chap. 3); identity formation in the context
of Arek Malang as the intersection of music, gangsterism, and soccer fan-
dom (Chap. 4); and the representation of ethnic Chinese identity in the
film Cek Toko Sebelah (Chap. 5). All of these are situated in contexts of
urban regeneration.
In Chap. 2, Munir and Tambunan discuss a dangdut gerobak orches-
tra’s way of claiming their right to a new urban space by reconstructing
their identity and tradition. They elucidate how old tradition is revived to
confront the dominant assumptions of gender, sexuality, and patriarchy
that accompany (new) urban spaces. Rejecting the city government’s
labeling of their community as buskers, the dangdut gerobak orchestra
members demonstrate that they are compatible with modern urban
Indonesia even if they choose to define themselves using the traditional
word gerobak (“hand-pulled cart”). In their efforts to oppose the official
10 M. BUDIMAN AND A. KUSNO

definition through a move that Munir and Tambunan call “contra-­

narration,” the members of the orchestra reconstructed their identities
through their collective memory, which, passed down through genera-
tions, keeps alive the significance of the gerobak and its connections to the
identity and tradition of the dangdut orchestra musicians.
The story of the dangdut gerobak orchestra shows how modernity and
tradition are brought together to define a position for the marginalized in
urban politics. Before becoming a counternarrative, the dangdut orchestra
was a sustainable everyday practice that did not need recognition or assis-
tance from the government. Munir and Tambunan ask and answer some
interesting questions: How can the dangdut gerobak orchestra live under
the government’s radar and simultaneously become a contemporary com-
modity? How do they redefine the correlations between gender associa-
tions and representations? How does featuring female musicians take on
significance that is different from the commodity itself? How can female
musicians dominate the public arena and become drivers of economic life
by engaging collective memory?
In Chap. 3, Ediyen and Tambunan present a study of “chained people”
(orang rantai) of Sawahlunto. They expose the struggle for local identity
through the city’s heritage discourse. Sawahlunto was designed by the
government as a tourist city because of its mining history, and the focus of
this chapter is the local response to this plan. The authors highlight the
descendants of the chained people, who aimed to present their own heri-
tage, in a narrative that complicated the official presentation of a mining
tourism city. They show how one story can be connected to another story
and then diverted back to the first one, demonstrating that discourses on
urban spaces cannot avoid the inherent contradictions that those spaces
construct.
This chapter also clarifies that such incongruent spaces are built from
special interests, so the narratives of urban regeneration is necessarily sup-
plemented by counter narratives drawn from collective memory that
sought accommodation. Additionally, this chapter illustrates the way in
which everyday’s narratives of living go hand in hand with both the accep-
tance and rejection of narratives that support the discourse on mining
tourism.
Chapter 4 by Maulida tells the story of rock music in Malang, showing
the close ties between music, youth culture movements, and the collective
memory of the city. Maulida connects gangsters, music, and Aremania and
demonstrates the dynamics of Arek Malang in the context of Malang’s
 1 INTRODUCTION: COLLECTIVE MEMORY, MARGINALITY, AND SPATIAL… 11

collective memory of the experiences of colonialism, revolution, and post-­

independence modernization. In each of these phases, Arek Malang has
been intimately associated with marginalization, youth, revolution, streets,
gangsters, the lower socioeconomic strata, and rock music. The ways in
which this collective memory is managed in a football association demon-
strates the close relationship between collective memory and the disciplin-
ing of the lower classes in Malang.
This chapter evinces how movements intersect to spontaneously gener-
ate new movements and how these movements complemented each other
in shaping the Arek Malang culture. The authors also discuss how an erst-
while street movement was “domesticated” with enticements such as foot-
ball clubs that in reality served to further the city’s commitment to
enforcing control over the working classes. The identity of the city of
Malang is revealed through the processes of adaptation and transforma-
tion that contribute to the dynamics of the Arek Malang movement.
Maulida illuminates how young people searching for identity can help
shape a city’s personality. The author also elucidates how these bottom-up
journeys from the streets to the field or from groups to associations are
analogous to the revolutionary period’s “youth” memory, which includes
recollections of violence and urban conflicts. Finally, Maulida exhibits how
Arek Malang attempted to break away from the central government’s bids
to control their identity.
In Chap. 5, Tambunan and Widhiasti examine the film Cek Toko Sebelah
and demonstrate how the prototypical ethnic Chinese shophouses in
Indonesia became contradictory spaces for urban development efforts that
did not intend to retain these traditional spaces. This chapter shows dis-
crete physical, traditional, and generational contradictions and underlines
how incongruencies persist as adaptation and continuity. In the face of
urban regeneration, ethnic Chinese have their own stories to recount. The
image of the ethnic Chinese as actors in Indonesian history began emerg-
ing only in the post-Suharto era, that is, after over 30 years of this ethnic
minority’s marginalization, whereby it was seen as the other (the scape-
goat of the state). The ability of Indonesia’s ethnic Chinese population to
connect and develop their own lifestyles and livelihoods in an unsupport-
ive political environment has been interpreted in many ways.
This chapter evokes Chinese culture, which is often associated with this
community’s power, as resistance to the culture of capital. Cek Toko Sebelah
is a film about tradition, resilience, and solidarity in a city undergoing a
massive transformation that threatens the kelontong store culture and
12 M. BUDIMAN AND A. KUSNO

family traditions of the city’s Chinese population. Tambunan and Widhiasti

discuss the movie’s presentation of the contradictions of development
from the perspective of daily life in one store. The authors describe how
the ethnic Chinese population in Indonesia used the tactics of adaptation
and translation to quietly adjust to the shifts in power dynamics that trans-
formed the cities and ultimately revive the unbreakable Chinese solidarity
grounded in culture and collective memory.

Marginality and the Other Archives

The second theme explores marginality in relation to planned geogra-
phies. It emphasizes resistance irrespective of whether the formation is
ultimately diverted or subdued to become a functional aspect of the gov-
ernment in power.
This section presents examples of such dynamics in the red-light dis-
tricts of Gang Dolly in Surabaya (Chap. 6), the urban social pathology of
Batam industrial city (Chap. 7), and how a new town called Pondok Indah
in Jakarta created new neighborhoods in an area called Pondok Pinang
with which it formed an interdependent relationship (Chap. 8). The last
chapter in this section documents the creation of alternative archives by
music communities, which problematize the institutional locations of offi-
cial archives and the institution’s power to frame and record classifications
through exclusion (Chap. 9).
Chapter 6 by Hayati and Mudaryanti follows sex workers who lived in
Gang Dolly and subscribed to its traditions until the municipal govern-
ment believed it was time to offer a new image for the city. This chapter
shows how Gang Dolly became a victim of the humanitarian, justice, and
morality discourse regarding the modernization and uprightness of the
cityscape. The new narrative is not limited to the symbols of moderniza-
tion and industrialization or representations of heritage and natural wealth,
which is where lies the contradiction. The sex industry is a part of what
makes the city famous and memorable, but Gang Dolly is not always dis-
cussed in official tourist guidebooks or history books. Gang Dolly is
known by the city government and arek Suroboyo (citizens of Surabaya) as
a kind of heterotopic space of the city. It is the “other” space that contrib-
utes to urban life and gives the city its meaning even though it is often
ruled out. Gang Dolly is an informal lubricant for the city. Most govern-
ments have, to an extent, accepted and maintained Gang Dolly through-
out its history in this area. The local community had always lived along
 1 INTRODUCTION: COLLECTIVE MEMORY, MARGINALITY, AND SPATIAL… 13

with the residents of the alley; thus, it became a normal part of the
city’s life.
This chapter demonstrates that Dolly was not the result of urban plan-
ning. It lived and grew in a location within the city and experienced vari-
ous municipal government policies until it became a victim of a morality
discourse in the post-Suharto era combined with Mayor Risma’s agenda of
fighting injustice. Mayor Risma saw Gang Dolly as the symbol of a past
establishment that oppressed women and children in the city. In the con-
text of rebranding the city, Gang Dolly was considered a disaster that
threatened humanity and the future of Surabaya. Hayati and Mudaryanti
provide readers the opportunity to observe the dynamics of the kampung
(village), as well as both the formal and the informal leadership of the city
government. The authors also offer food for thought about the emer-
gence of the morality discourse pertaining to the humanitarian agenda of
the leadership. Gang Dolly rose and fell from the contradictions of city
branding, and only time will tell if the disappearance of Gang Dolly will
remain in the collective memory of arek Suroboyo. The study of Gang
Dolly also elucidates its existence as a contradictory or other space that the
city government had to eliminate in the interests of creating a new
Surabaya.
Chapter 7 by Anita and Pradjoko considers the case of Batam, where
rapid urbanization produced social pathologies in the form of poverty,
crime, and prostitution. Batam, built collaboratively by three countries as
an example of a new strategy for how to develop a city or region, depended
on mobilizing informal cheap laborers and sex workers. Anita and Pradjoko
show that the industrial city of Batam exploited the lower echelons of
society that were made to work to complement the shortcomings of the
industrial city. For example, the factories in Batam do not provide housing
for their workers, who have to rent boarding houses in the villages that
have sprouted in the areas surrounding the factories. Prostitution provides
the entertainment expected of an industrial city; poverty maintains the
existence of a low-cost workforce; and criminality justifies efforts to safe-
guard and relinquish the responsibility of the industrial space.
Such an arrangement shows that “urban problems” are are part of the
informality expected to emerge in an industrial city. This chapter also
highlights the role of the intermediaries in the relationship between capital
and labor. The middlemen, mafia, and thugs evidence a setting that has no
clear formal or informal boundaries. Nonetheless, this blurring comple-
ments Batam’s needs as an industrial city. Furthermore, this chapter
14 M. BUDIMAN AND A. KUSNO

underscores the involvement of transnational regional governance in co-­

producing poverty, crime, and prostitution.
In Chap. 8, Ulfiarti, Murdayanti, and Mutia describe yet another for-
mation of “other” space (heterotopia) through the production of a new
space. Pondok Indah, a wealthy residential area in South Jakarta, was a
symbol of the government’s agenda of engaging private capital to create a
new citizenry through elite settlements. Real estate in Pondok Indah has
mushroomed in value, but there has been very little research attention on
the impacts of Pondok Indah on the communities around the develop-
ment. This chapter fills the gap by discussing the impact of separating an
area of Pondok Pinang to build the exclusive new suburbs at Pondok Indah.
Pondok Indah emerged in the 1970s marking an era of progress in
human settlement during the New Order, and Ulfiarti, Murdayanti, and
Mutia examine the impact of enclosing land for elite settlements as a sign
of new expansion by private developers in the capital. Pondok Indah sepa-
rated itself from Pondok Pinang to establish a modern elite class identity,
creating an unequal social arrangement in the community. How Pondok
Pinang and Pondok Indah turned against each other, adapted to each
other, and pushed each other is a theme consistent with the transforma-
tion of Jakarta through the ages. As one of the first private real estate
developments in postcolonial Jakarta, Pondok Indah and its growth reflect
several phenomena: The private sector can undertake urban development
and become a symbol of state development, and new spaces can elevate or
reduce the quality of life of the surrounding environment while spurring
adaptation, competition, and creativity.
This chapter also illustrates the fact that urban space in Jakarta is formed
through an informal alliance of the state and capital (between the political
authorities and entrepreneurs) that produced spaces of informality that in
turn must adapt to the new settlement. Pondok Pinang had to adapt to
meet the interests of new settlements, for instance, by providing labor and
rooming for the new town’s working class. Such formation patterns char-
acterize the transformation of the urban spaces of Jakarta, where the pro-
cess of capital, land, and building formations was informal and the impacts
that occurred were also subject to informal adaptation. We learn from this
chapter how new spaces are always associated with what is old, interlock-
ing, and shifting and how they negotiate and cooperate in uneven battles.
The result is the emergence of new activities and everyday infrastructure
that are often unpredictable, as well as the rapid erosion of the environ-
ment that cannot be promptly handled through urban planning.
 1 INTRODUCTION: COLLECTIVE MEMORY, MARGINALITY, AND SPATIAL… 15

Chapter 9 presents a community-based movement to archive Indonesia’s

popular music. The authors, Adhiyatmaka and Kurnia, highlight the com-
munity’s movements to document and archive popular music in the
absence of government initiatives. They analyze the collective memory of
organizations’ founders and describe how these individual collections
redefine the concept of “Indonesia” by integrating all that is remembered
and forgotten. This chapter presents an example of informal heritage
movements that began from the grassroots in the absence of state or
business-­sector support. It is not about resistance (because there are no
formal institutions to challenge), but it does engage in the effort to define
Indonesian heritage. The bottom-up initiative aims to document music
that is deemed to represent Indonesia more comprehensively. A study of
four institutions, the Irama Nusantara, the Indonesian Jazz Archives (pri-
vate funding), the Indonesian Music Museum, and the Lokananta Project
(semi-government), evidences the collective memory and history of their
respective creators and supporters. The authors probe how music is
defined; which assemblages qualify as “Indonesian” and which do not;
how each of these organizations struggles for its local, regional, and
national identity; and how such entities can be recognized as private col-
lectives or apparatuses that accumulate community (not country)
compilations.
This chapter highlights diverse selections that allow these compendia to
grapple with the political and music associations identified by every admin-
istration over the course of Indonesian history. This chapter also delves
into the manner in which this music collection deals with identity politics
during the decentralization period.

New Mood, Medium, and Media

The third collection of chapters represents the theme of spatial technology
and the new medium of social media as representations of a new time. The
contributors consider the roles of professionals, developers, and entrepre-
neurs as well as citizens in devising a different form of city governance.
The aim is to contribute to social change or influence the course of his-
tory. The context of creating the new spaces varies from modernizing the
old to novel strategies, but they all pertain to confronting the challenges
posed by economic, political, and cultural clashes and crises that occur in
transitions from colonialism to postcolonial autonomy.
16 M. BUDIMAN AND A. KUSNO

The first two chapters consist of material from the colonial past, par-
ticularly the construction of Pasar Johar in Semarang (Chap. 10) and the
planning for a new seat of Dutch colonial power in Bandung (Chap. 11).
Chapters 12 and 13 end the book discussing the new age of information
technology such as (in particular) social media that has allowed citizens to
influence political outcomes and engage in the new politics of identity.
The notion of power, which is central to any reconfiguration of space and
time, takes physical as well as virtual form.
There is strong and fairly consistent continuity between the colonial
histories of cities in Indonesia and their journeys into the postcolonial
period, although much of the constructed colonial heritage has been
destroyed or no longer remains. However, phenomena other than the lost
buildings remain in memories, archives, and postcolonial relations. These
remnants make the past feel intimately connected to the present. This sec-
tion opens with Chap. 10 by Srendro and Kanumoyoso’s article on Pasar
Johar (Johar Market) in Semarang which was design by Dutch architect,
Thomas Karsten. Karsten’s much-lauded market design is viewed not just
from the lens of modernization but also as an effort to solidify the author-
ity of the city government. Pasar Johar’s existence recalls an “exemplary
center” where authorities display their power to control street vendors and
regulate space and time through the activities of urban traders and buyers.
The disciplining of people through space contains the element of educa-
tion in becoming a “citizen of the city.”
Those assigned spaces in Pasar Johar were distinguishable from those
who are still forced to sell outside the walls of the new-age market. Pasar
Johar represented a series of classifications and identities that can be read
through urban space and local security efforts and that distinguish the old
from the new and outside from within. Srendro and Kanumoyoso hint
that Pasar Johar signifies a part of the politics of reform, modernization,
pacification, reconciliation, and also class formation by a regime that
wanted to maintain its power through new conceptions of spaces pre-
sented by professionals such as Thomas Karsten.
In Chap. 11, Lestari, Mudaryanti, and Mutia consider Bandung,
located at a higher altitude than Batavia and marked by the authorities and
businessmen (from East Java) as a future utopia, a city of dreams. Bandung
became a subject of research because of the rising awareness of the West
Javanese social and political contexts and the crisis of legitimacy of the
colonial government. The sense of anxiety that permeates literature about
tourism in Bandung in colonial times relates to the context of securing
 1 INTRODUCTION: COLLECTIVE MEMORY, MARGINALITY, AND SPATIAL… 17

economic resources for the plantations of West Java, the dynamics of

Islam, and political awareness among the Indonesian people. Bandung
started to become a government center only after the Priangan area
became a production center for large plantations. The study of Bandoeng
Vooruit, an association that introduced the tourism to Bandung, shows a
link between politics and culture. The scholarly discussion of urban tour-
ism can be understood through several perspectives, one related to domes-
ticating the so-called dangerous or wild environment. This taming process
is well-known through the Mooi Indies painting style that emerged in the
early twentieth century to imagine a peaceful colony in the time of “zaman
pergerakan”—the era when colonial order was increasingly threatened by
anti-colonial movements. The Indies where there was rebellion and the
violence of war and forced labor was portrayed as exotic, scenic, and
peaceful.
The Bandoeng Vooruit movement can be seen as the process of a city’s
branding effort to attract European residents to the colony and simultane-
ously display the presence of a new age in the colonial rule of Indonesia.
Meanwhile, the physical revolution in the form of the Bandung Lautan
Api and DI/TII events in West Java exhibited the conflict over the new
age and demonstrated that Bandung was inseparable from the political
history of West Java. Through the Bandoeng Vooruit movement, this
chapter illuminates the relationships between state bureaucracy, business-
men, professionals, and the elite (European) middle-class leaders as they
developed Bandung, normalized the colony, and birthed a utopian space
for consumption through the tourism discourse.
In the decentralization era today, the world of Indonesian cities moved
beyond the gaze of the state. The capital city loosened, and there was no
longer a center against which to contest. As Indonesia decentralized, local
or city politics became arenas of disputes over power, policies, and priori-
ties. As Indonesia decentralized its authority, it also entered the new world
of digital technology and its associated new media. Social media today has
become a medium for societal interactions and a conduit for new politics
of identity.
In Chap. 12, Acikgenc and Pratama examine the political implications
of social media. They evince the emergence of the polarization of
Indonesian democracy through the transformation of the tradition of
musyawarah (deliberation). Social media facilitates polarization and at the
same time obscures history and memory, both official and informal. This
chapter looks at “post-truth” information mobilization on social media,
18 M. BUDIMAN AND A. KUSNO

where objective and subjective lines overlap. Acikgenc and Pratama cite
the example of the 2017 local election with Governor Ahok’s case to dem-
onstrate how the post-truth mobilization against Ahok became united.
The 212 (refers to December 2, 2017) protest movement that saw mass
demonstrations in central public spaces such as the National Monument
Plaza and on protocol roads represented the climax of a journey that
began in a virtual space. The resistance toward Ahok is first the virtual and
subsequently urban spaces created an imagined community of the urban
Islamic middle class.
Because collective memory is local and often does not experience cen-
tralization, the emergence of digital social media has accorded people a
space that can accommodate different expressions of memories. As dis-
cussed in Chap. 12, collective memory emerges in social media at the
surface of a democracy that influences identity formation through polarity
politics.
In Chap. 13, Rumata, Salim, and Sastrosubroto show the intersection
of identity regulation and social media politics. The authors show how a
so-called democratic movement is contained and influenced by social
media technology; how polarity is formed from impulses embedded in
social media mechanisms that shape community (friending) through the
search for opponents (unfriending); how the conflict-avoiding traditions
of musyawarah (deliberation), paguyuban (community), and silaturahmi
(friendship) are amended by the democracy of the polarity of pros and
cons and friends and opponents; how traditions of ambiguity are miti-
gated by followers (through social media) who are encouraged to take
polar positions because of peer and adversarial pressure; how repeated rep-
resentations produce mass “truths”; how one witness and testimony can
turn into thousands and millions of witnesses (and testimonies) because of
repeated mass presentations; and how ideology can become populist.
This chapter extends into Chap. 12 in scrutinizing the behavior of
Indonesians as they consumed and produced social media during Ahok’s
fall: how social media presented Ahok and how this depiction encouraged
the articulation of polarity. It also details the actors and communities that
inspired the polarity: the pro- and anti-Ahok movements and their build-
ing of collective memories pertaining to Ahok, Jakarta, and Indonesia. An
important contribution of this chapter is the impact of the polarities on
the government’s efforts to regulate identity politics and social media
content.
 1 INTRODUCTION: COLLECTIVE MEMORY, MARGINALITY, AND SPATIAL… 19

Under the three themes of “Urban Regeneration and Collective

Memory,” “Marginality and Other Archives,” and “New Mood, Medium,
and Media,” contributors of this book discuss the roles of culture and
politics in defining spaces and how built environments in turn shape cul-
ture and politics.
As a whole, this book invites readers to reflect on time, space, and their
movements in the action-packed urban arenas. As an intentional and stra-
tegic decision, the volume only presents discussions on Indonesian cities
by Indonesian contributors from the broad field of humanities. We also
seek to acknowledge the limitation that the chapters collected in this vol-
ume pertain only to the cities of Java. The authors of this volume do not
intend to disseminate a Java-centric hegemony. As such, this book could
be an incentive to propagate more Indonesian urban studies conducted in
English, especially by Indonesian researchers. Expanding these efforts
could develop an Indonesia-specific discourse on urban studies.

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 PART I

Urban Regeneration and Collective

Memory
 CHAPTER 2

The Mobility of Orkes Dangdut Gerobak

in the Urban Space: Commodification
of Female Sexuality and Patriarchal
Capitalism

Muhammad Syahrul Munir

and Shuri Mariasih Gietty Tambunan

Introduction
The media produces and disseminates various meanings of orkes (“orches-
tra”) dangdut. For example, mainstream media associates it with low-class
entertainment or singers selling sexuality. Orkes dangdut gerobak (cart-
wheeled dangdut orchestra) is often portrayed as a negative phenomenon
in urban spaces and is associated with sexual harassment, drunkenness, and
even murder. According to some scholars (Yampolski, 1991; Weintraub,
2010; Wallach, 2008), dangdut refers to shaky dance movements or

M. S. Munir • S. M. Gietty Tambunan (*)

Department of Literature, Faculty of Humanities, Universitas Indonesia,
Depok, Indonesia
e-mail: [email protected]; [email protected]

© The Author(s) 2025 27

M. Budiman, A. Kusno (eds.), Collective Memory, Marginality, and
Spatial Politics in Urban Indonesia.,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-97-4304-9_2
28 M. S. MUNIR AND S. M. GIETTY TAMBUNAN

goyangan, which can be interpreted as an activity that encourages sensual-

ity; it can also be seen as a form of entertainment that releases stress.
As Wallach (2002) discussed, the patriarchal capitalism that has influ-
enced Jakarta has constructed a paradigm that understands goyangan in
dangdut as an activity that contributes to male dominance over women;
female dangdut singers who perform goyangan are seen as objects to sat-
isfy the desires of male audiences. Moreover, the goyangan phenomenon
in orkes dangdut is linked to the objectification of the female body. Several
narratives of online media that discuss female body objectification and the
commodification of female sexuality are explored in this chapter.
Previous research on dangdut mostly focused on its historical trajectory
and cultural positioning, particularly in comparison with other music
genres in Indonesia. For example, Weintraub (2010), a scholar who con-
ducted significant research on dangdut in Indonesia, examined dangdut
music in relation to the historical and political culture in Indonesia. He
explained that media can be used to interpret the themes of dangdut
music, such as class and power relations (Weintraub, 2006, 2010, 2013).
Other researchers highlight the problematization of sexuality in dangdut
(Bader, 2011; Van Wichelen, 2005; Bader & Richter, 2014).
During the initial stages of this research, it became evident that main-
stream and online media constructed images of orkes dangdut gerobak that
led the public to form particular perceptions regarding these musicians,
such as the abovementioned view that the female singers are merely sex
objects for their male audiences. The dancers are even harassed by male
audience members, who grope with impunity and without their consent.
The media narrative is that these singers’ erotic dance movements cause
their assaults.
However, from 2016 to 2017, based on our fieldwork in the Jatinegara
area, one of the orkes dangdut gerobak sites in Jakarta, we argue that the
everyday lives of orkes dangdut gerobak is a space for actors, female singers,
and musicians to negotiate with urban authorities. These groups challenge
the negative misrepresentations of their existence in the urban scene by
performing in the streets and constructing counternarratives to the crimi-
nality and sexuality pushed by the media that highlighted morality. This
chapter investigates how the mainstream media constructed the cultural
practice of orkes dangdut gerobak in comparison with the findings of our
ethnographic research. Furthermore, it discusses the dynamics of dangdut
as a popular culture in the urban space by examining the power relations
between orkes dangdut gerobak members, represented by Orkes Selvina,
 2 THE MOBILITY OF ORKES DANGDUT GEROBAK IN THE URBAN… 29

and city officials. The processes and forces at stake in the dynamics of these
power relations contributed to the different moral imaginings of dangdut
as well as to how popular music imaginaries shape questions of urbanism.

Orkes Dangdut Gerobak in Online Media:

Commodification of Sexuality
and Patriarchal Capitalism

We identified multiple online media narratives regarding orkes dangdut

gerobak that consistently featured keywords in the articles’ titles related to
eroticism and the commodification of female sexuality. Goyang atau Joget
is identical to dangdut music, but in one article, Silalahi (2013) describes
the dances in orkes dangdut gerobak as erotic (all sources based on our
translations). In an article from merdeka.com, Arnengsih, a female dang-
dut singer in an orkes dangdut gerobak, comments that she must also
embody eroticism: “That is common, if I don’t shake, I will not
receive money.”
Dance by male dangdut dancers in an orkes is seen as an expression of
masculinity. The term “goyang” has no specific meaning, but when goyan-
gan is practiced by men in a public sphere in the form of a dangdut con-
cert, together with female singers, the implied meaning is that the male
audiences are patrons of the female singers (Weintraub, 2013, p. 22).
They patronize the women by dancing with them in an orkes dangdut, and
masculinity again becomes distinct because it is men in the audience who
give money to the female singers. This defining of masculinity in public
spaces renders them gendered spaces in which women are exploited by
masculine powers (state power, economic power in a competition-based
market economy, power of technology, and power of male sexual desires;
Kristianto, 2009).
Goyang and saweran, money audiences give to performers, are interre-
lated in every orkes dangdut gerobak concert. Saweran itself has various
meanings: first, as an expression of male sensuality over that of women,
which could lead to male domination in public spaces; second, as an
expression of male wealth in public spaces; and third, simply as an expres-
sion of pleasure. Silalahi’s (2013) article tends to situate saweran in orkes
dangdut gerobak as the expression of male sensuality over female dangdut
singers:
30 M. S. MUNIR AND S. M. GIETTY TAMBUNAN

These two women expressed that they do not feel uncomfortable when they
dance surrounded by strange, drunk men at night. “I am with a friend
named Lina. Sometimes we sing together, or sometimes when we are tired,
like right now, we alternate singing. Aggressive advances definitely happen,
for example, touching or groping our waists. Yet, I am not afraid, since I
have some male friends here. Teasing is common here,” she said casually
while rubbing her forehead several times. Nengsih admitted the erotic dance
movements that she performs are solely to get money from masher guys.
She added that if someone starts to be aggressive, her trick is to avoid him
and move on to another man with small change in his hand. “If [one is]
being annoying and starting to grope, of course I will move to another. But
not everyone is aggressive. Usually, one becomes annoying if they are already
heavily drunk,” she said. (Silalahi, 2013, translated by the researchers)

The eroticism of the singers’ goyangan is still the most significant element
in the journalistic narrative of this article. Quotations that contain the
phrase “erotic movements” posit female singers as objects that allow audi-
ences to indulge in their sexuality, but the women quoted above shared
some agency to confront men, moving on if one became difficult. In
Silalahi’s narrative, Arnengsih’s eroticism is given more emphasis than her
bravery in singing in the middle of an all-male crowd and confronting men
who sexually harassed her.
In another article entitled “The Fun in Dancing with Gerobak Dangdut”
(news.detik.com, 2010), the author marginalized the singer’s abilities and
portrayed her as an object for men.

The night is getting late as four men push a cart down the Lenteng Agung
road. In the cart are a set of loudspeakers, guitars, drums, flutes, and a key-
board. They are accompanied by a woman who sways while she walks.

While smoking her cigarette, Leni told me that she has been singing dang-
dut for six years, moving from one neighborhood to another. Yet, she
claimed not to feel uncomfortable. Indeed, as she sings on the streets, there
are men teasing her. “But I am not afraid. I have male friends here. The teas-
ing is such a common thing. It’s seldom to encounter rude guys,” she said.
Her statement is seconded by Anto, a 35-year-old man from Sragen, Central
Java. It has been 10 years since he started working as an orkes dangdut kelil-
ing member. So far, he has not experienced an offensive audience or one
that is rude to his vocalist. (news.detik.com—translated by the researchers)
 2 THE MOBILITY OF ORKES DANGDUT GEROBAK IN THE URBAN… 31

The statement “They are accompanied by a woman who sways while she
walks” is powerful in constructing the readers’ perception that the female
singers are at fault in the case of sexual assault; “swaying” implies erotic
behavior. In this context, Leni and some male members of orkes dangdut
gerobak walk together, but the article emphasizes the way Leni walks. The
article also blurs Leni’s opinion of her career choices: “But I am not afraid,
I have male friends here.” She demonstrates her bravery, even though the
impact is limited because she is protected by the male group members.
This indicates in fact that Leni is not completely commodified.
Next, Wallach (2002) explains how Indonesians have been influenced
by two ideological systems: patriarchal capitalism and commodified female
sexuality (pp. 1–2). The discourse still perceives men as superior to women,
especially in the practice of orkes dangdut gerobak in urban spaces, but this
narrative also ignores women’s own work. The female singers of orkes dan-
gdut gerobak seem to be entirely sexually commodified when in fact they
still have agency to confront sexual assailants.
Bartky (1990) proposes that female sexual commodification is closely
related to female sexual objectification. He spells out a separation of the
female body from its existence as a [fully] human being to its presentation
as merely an object to satisfy men’s sexual desires. Women’s sexual com-
modification can take the form of sexy female dangdut singers or song
lyrics containing pornographic references; these offer male viewers plea-
sure, but viewing them cannot transcend to satisfaction.
Exploiting the female body by shrinking it to a mere commodity for
men is an embodiment of patriarchal capitalism. Coined by Eisenstein
(1999), the concept emphasizes an interdependent relationship between
the capitalist class structure and male supremacy (p. 196). With the term,
Eisenstein highlighted the role of capitalism in reinforcing male domi-
nance over women by commodifying them in sexualized and pornographic
manners that economically entrench the patriarchy. Patriarchal capitalism
also fuels the dominant association of dangdut with female sexuality and
its exploitation. Bader (2011) argues,

This prominence of female sexuality is one reason why dangdut and tarling
dangdut music are often considered to be musik kampungan and erotic
entertainment. As a discursive practice performed by the emerging
Indonesian middle class and elite, this narrative has served as an indicator for
defining what is inappropriate and unsuitable in Indonesia. (p. 338)
32 M. S. MUNIR AND S. M. GIETTY TAMBUNAN

Even though Bader focuses on tarling dangdut, a specific type of dangdut

from the coastal area in West Java, her findings resonate with the findings
of this chapter. She argues that the elites were the ones with the social
power to position dangdut as low-class music (musik kampungan) because
they are the ones with the authority to decide what is appropriate.
Erotic content in the media is also the result of patriarchal capitalism.
In one article entitled “Sexy ‘Dangdut’ Outfits Banned in Tangerang,”
published on jakartapost.com, Anya (2017) explains how sexiness in orkes
dangdut gerobak is narrated. Attaching the word “sexy” to “dangdut”
automatically sexualizes the women who engage in dangdut. That is, if a
woman is involved, anything related to dangdut is sexy dangdut.
Anya (2017) reported that hosts could order (“request”) female singers
to wear what the hosts desired. Toing, the boss of the group, dangdut
RGJ, explained that he followed the hosts’ requests in terms of clothing
and the concept of the events, and Anya highlighted the prevalence of
sexuality in hosts’ requests: “Most hosts requested that the singers wear
clothes that exposed parts of their body, such as the thighs and chest.” Yet
again reflecting patriarchal capitalism, women become products their
hosts can custom order. Emphasizing the sexualized nature of transactions
entices men to read articles such as Anya’s, but these narratives negate the
actual talents of the singers. Women are indeed commodified, but that is
not the sole aspect of their existence and work.
We consistently found this tone of criminalizing the members of orkes
dangdut gerobak, for instance, in the article “Rebutan Joget dengan
Biduan, sekuriti di Senen Tewas Dianiaya” or “Not Wanting to Take Turns
to Dance with the Female Singer, a Security Guard Was Killed in Senen,”
which was published on merdeka.com (Ronald, 2016). The article’s
author, Ronald (2016), chose words and narratives that presented the
orkes dangdut gerobak as responsible for what happened; he particularly
blamed the female singer for triggering the incident. He ended his article
with sympathy for the intent behind the policy that banned performances
by orkes dangdut gerobak in the area: that they were “hanya membuat ker-
ibutan,” or a “source of trouble.” Moreover, in addition to constructing
a discourse that criminalized orkes dangdut gerobak, Ronald managed to
sexualize the female singers as the ones responsible for men’s desires.
 2 THE MOBILITY OF ORKES DANGDUT GEROBAK IN THE URBAN… 33

An Ethnographic Study of Orkes Dangdut Gerobak

Selvina: The Mobility of Orkes Dangdut Gerobak
in Jakarta’s City Space

Orkes dangdut gerobak is always accompanied by two symbols: a cart and

dangdut music. Several terms referring to orkes are orkes dangdut keliling
(“moving-around orkes dangdut”), orkes dorong (“orkes that is pushed”),
and dangdut gerobakan (“dangdut in a cart”). In this chapter, we use orkes
dangdut gerobak because it encompasses three key characteristics: first,
orkes as a group of a singer and musicians; second, dangdut as a signifier of
pop culture; and third, gerobak, signifying the apparatus that makes them
different from other street musicians.
To run a dangdut concert on the streets, orkes dangdut gerobak use the
following: a gerobak (a cart), a set of generators, a sound system, an ampli-
fier, and a keyboard; this equipment is common to orkes dangdut grobak in
the Baladewa area of Central Jakarta and its surrounding area. In other
areas, for example, in Ciganjur and Depok, the orkes dangdut gerobak use
only a gerobak, a set of generators, a sound system, and a CD player. Orkes
Selvina is an orkes dangdut gerobak that uses a keyboard, which is a sign of
modernity and sophistication (Jensen, 2011); ironically, the modernity
fades when the means of transporting Orkes Selvina in Jakarta is a cart.
Orkes dangdut gerobak is therefore an anomaly: Its modernity represented
by a keyboard and a sound system relies on the old-fashioned gerobak.
Jakarta, the capital city of Indonesia, is perceived to manifest moder-
nity; therefore, Orkes Selvina’s use of the gerobak is anachronistic. Based
on orkes dangdut gerobak’s lack of modernity, the city banned gerobak as
violating public order under Local Regulation of DKI Jakarta Article 40,
8/2007, which prohibits their existence in much of the city space. In an
interview, Uca (the leader of Orkes Selvina) said, “[We are] frequently
warned by the police, wherever we go, we are warned by the police… very
frequent, by social services too.”
Article 40 has become city officials’ legal tool for controlling the exis-
tence of orkes dangdut gerobak in the city space. Officials define dangdut
gerobak as buskers even though they identify as musicians. The officials use
their labels as a form of “governmentality,” according to Jensen (2011),
to identify themselves as the dominant parties in the city and shape orkes
dangdut gerobak as a dangerous presence in the city.
Meanwhile, the power relations between dangdut gerobak and city offi-
cials (the police department and social services), despite being imbalanced,
34 M. S. MUNIR AND S. M. GIETTY TAMBUNAN

are very dynamic. As the leader of the orkes, Uca had attempted to negoti-
ate their existence in the city with the police department, insisting that he
was a musician and rejecting that he should be “forbidden to exist” in the
city. The effort to be identified as a street musician is depicted by the work
of his own dangdut song “Amarahmu,” composed by Uca and written by
Keling (an Orkes Selvina member), and the group has performed the song
multiple times in street concerts.
“Amarahmu” is a well-crafted arrangement, not just monotonous tones
that are played randomly and continuously or a modification of another
song. This not only indicates that Uca understands music and rhythm but
also negates the official city discourse that Uca and his friends are buskers.
In an interview, Uca told me his songs are often accidental: “[I just make
it] without any intention, who knows somebody might want to buy.”
Uca’s unintentional compositions mark him as a skilled musician, well
beyond a mere busker.
The power relations between Orkes Selvina and city officials are not
rigid; the orkes have some room for negotiations. For example, Uca
recounted several events during our 2016 interview related to the police
department that were the result of the group’s diplomacy. The police
often explain that they are not making the laws but are just following their
orders from above, suggesting that they do not always enforce or agree
with the strict governance. Rather, the police appear to attempt to disen-
gage from the repressive authority that orders them to remove orkes
gerubak dangdut from the city spaces.
The fact is that the police, as they report it, are mere subordinates who
must do the work assigned to them. Rather than possessing absolute
power, they appear to be located in the lowest stratum of the political
hierarchy. Similarly, Suaeni, the singer for Orkes Selvina, recounts a
moment when social services interrupted her orkes dangdut gerobak. The
officer was taking pictures to report back to the subdistrict that the group
needed to stop performing, but they did not actually do anything to stop
the musicians from performing. In other words, the police department
and social services agency are deployed to practice a repressive action, but
their actual practices are contextual and fluid. In fact, Uca and Suaeni told
me that some officials support their activities in the city space:

The ones who support… Alhamdulillah there are many who support, for
example, Mr. Joko, the Regional Chief of Police [imitating Mr. Joko]: “The
thing is that if there is anyone [arresting you], you report to Aa [‘Brother’
 2 THE MOBILITY OF ORKES DANGDUT GEROBAK IN THE URBAN… 35

in Sundanese], just call me.” But now [we are] no longer [prohibited] by
Mr. Bimo. Mr. Bimo supports us because he likes dangdut and so does Mr.
Hasyim. Just go along with it.” (interview, translated by the researcher)

These city officials, who are supposed to be enforcing strict governance,

do not in fact have negative feelings toward orkes dangdut gerobak playing
in the city spaces. For instance, Mr. Joko’s instruction that Uca call him
“Aa” suggests a close relationship between them, and the fact that Pak
Bimo and Mr. Hasyim, authorities in the police department, appreciated
the music and no longer prohibited the group’s performances demon-
strate the flexibility in enforcing the regulation. It appears that not every
city official practices the same level of repressive action in everyday situa-
tions. The dynamic interaction of the police and social service officials
with the members of the orkes dangdut gerobak is not as rigid as depicted
in mainstream narratives. The regulation that is usually repressive and
strict turns out to be flexible when enforced upon Orkes Selvina by the
city officials.

Moral Discourse in Orkes Selvina

Orkes Selvina challenges the notion of eroticism and the commodification
of sexuality as fashioned in the media in the context of moral discourse.
Uca opens every concert with the phrase, “Excuse me, assalamu’alaikum.”
“Excuse me” speaks to an ethical tradition in Indonesian society, and
“assalamu’alaikum” is a phrase representing moral values. He renounced
the association of his music with sexuality in this statement in our inter-
view: “Although [we are just] dangdut gerobak, [we are] best quality. If
possible, good akhlak [good behavior] too … I want entertainment, the
music is to entertain people, not for that [negative] stuff.” Here, Uca uses
the term akhlak to indicate that he does not wish to be associated with
eroticism and sexual assaults, “that [negative] stuff.” The orkes dangdut
gerobak led by Uca is also currently making an effort to confront another
discourse, that of criminality, which has long been attributed to orkes dan-
gdut gerobak, by showing akhlak.
In our ethnographic study, everyday practices in the orkes dangdut gero-
bak community include rejections of the negativity, both criminal and
sexual. Suani told me that she once got mad at her singer friends when
they wore short pants to the concert on the streets: “Astaghfirullah! They
do not think of selling their voices; instead, they give an impression of
36 M. S. MUNIR AND S. M. GIETTY TAMBUNAN

being easily taken. It’s so embarrassing” (interview conducted and trans-

lated by the researcher). She rejects eroticism in her work as a singer in
Orkes Selvina and prioritizes vocal quality over exposing body parts just
for money. This is not to say that eroticism is not practiced in the phenom-
enon. This suggests that the orkes led by Uca’s orkes rejects the media-­
constructed notion of female objectification, eroticism, and criminality.
This finding is parallel to Bader’s (2011) conclusions in her research on
nyawer culture in dangdut performances in West Java. Bader’s research
contributes to the existing scholarship on creativity and female agency,
particularly in dangdut, which has always been associated with female
objectification:

Although the singer dancers I worked with in Jakarta and Indramayu per-
formed in sensual, erotic ways and sometimes engaged in brief physical con-
tact with dancing audience members, they did not cross the line to overt
physical indecency. Instead, they creatively improvise during these nyawer
encounters, whereby different meanings have been ascribed to their lived
experiences. These lived experiences point to the manifold nature of their
subjectivities, which are shaped by their creative, embodied actions and
intercorporeal relationships with the dancing audience on stage. (Bader,
2011, p. 340)

In Orkes Selvina, Uca and Suaeni reject the commodification and objecti-
fication of the female singer’s sexuality as well as their criminality through
their creative and embodied actions. For example, Uca and the other male
members physically restrain any attempts by the audience to harass the
female members during performances. This implies agency, which chal-
lenges the dominant narrative of orkes dangdut gerobak by the main-
stream media.
Uca also protects female members from harm from the audience: “Even
Emi is harassed, [she is] dragged all over the space. I don’t like it, so I stop
[playing music] at once.” “I don’t like it” suggests an attempt to resist the
discourse of criminality that has long been associated with orkes dangdut
gerobak. Next, “I stop at once” shows that Uca, as the leader of Orkes
Selvina, is against the sexual harassment experienced by one of his
members.
Additionally, Orkes Selvina resists the sexualization of the female sing-
ers by the clothes they wear. Uca said, “Here [in this group] I run… we
don’t want to wear this kind of skirt (pointing at her tight skirt). I want
 2 THE MOBILITY OF ORKES DANGDUT GEROBAK IN THE URBAN… 37

Levi’s long pants” (interview conducted and translated by the researcher).

The limitation affiliated with wearing short skirts provides a counter dis-
course to the notion that associates orkes dangdut gerobak with sexual
harassment and eroticism. Additionally, it strengthens Orkes Selvina’s cul-
tural practices that reject the objectification of dangdut female singers.
We argue that the collective effort to resist the mainstream media’s
stigmatization of orkes dangdut gerobak is a form of authority contesta-
tion. Furthermore, the very essence of the group is temporary, which
could be interpreted as a strategy for defying the authorities while navigat-
ing the city, literally and figuratively. Police surveillance becomes difficult
if the groups perform in moving locations around the city. This “collective
creativity” (Giuffre, 2016) conveys how the members have become cre-
ative individuals who “… are embedded within specific network contexts
so that creativity itself, rather than being an individual personality charac-
teristic is, instead, a collective phenomenon” (p. 1). Collective creativity
“is a subversive weapon for actors in the field. And the use of art is a strat-
egy for actors in the field of power. Creativity happens as a result of this
social contest. It is a social strategy” (Giuffre, 2016, p. 126). As a creative
collective, orkes dangdut gerobak continues to move (mobility) and change
(temporality), which challenges the city’s established social order.

Conclusion
This chapter on orkes dangdut gerobak aims to contribute to the research
on dangdut as a daily cultural practice in urban society. The depiction of
orkes dangdut gerobak in online media is often demeaning, and based on
our ethnographic study, there are complex everyday practices that need to
be re-evaluated especially in connection with the dynamic urban practices.
The main findings of this research demonstrate the anomalies in the mean-
ings of modernity that are practiced by orkes dangdut gerobak. For instance,
the gerobak does not embody technological advances, but the instruments
these musicians play are technologically sophisticated.
Another aspect we highlight here is that the connection between group
members based on their income earning does not impact their social rela-
tions. We found that the social relationships of the orkes dangdut gerobak’s
group members with the group owners do not show evidence of power
relations. It quite contradicts the modern economic concept in which
money determines social relations between people.
38 M. S. MUNIR AND S. M. GIETTY TAMBUNAN

Although governance is often rigidly and repressively conducted in

practice, the orkes dangdut gerobak members we interviewed and observed
in this case study reported that more flexible relations with individual city
officials that lessened some of the repressive practices. Formally, the local
regulations ban orkes dangdut gerobak performances in public city spaces,
and authorities call these performers buskers rather than acknowledging
them as musicians. However, Orkes Selvina confronts city officials diplo-
matically to preserve their existence and ability to keep making a living in
the city spaces of Jakarta; they also demonstrate skill and identify as musi-
cians, not buskers. Uca and his group challenge the narratives the main-
stream media has constructed about orkes dangdut gerobak.
The discussion of orkes dangdut gerobak in this chapter conveys how
dangdut, as a genre of Indonesian popular music, can shape understand-
ings of urbanism. The mainstream understanding of dangdut as music for
the lower class is challenged in this chapter. Furthermore, orkes dangdut
gerobak as a mobile cultural practice navigates its way through the aisles of
urban spaces in Jakarta and illustrates the dynamic understanding of
urbanism. Urbanism in Jakarta is constantly changing and filled with con-
testing narratives from all types of actors, in this case, the authoritative
voice of the mainstream media and the seemingly subjacent voices of the
members of orkes dangdut gerobak.

Acknowledgments This work was supported by the Universitas Indonesia’s

Research Grant (PITTA 2017) managed by DRPM UI (Grant Number:
NKB-492/UN2.R3.1/HKP.05.00/2017). It was copyedited by ENAGO.

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 CHAPTER 3

Orang Rantai in Sawahlunto:

A State-­Sponsored Heritage City
and the Politics of Collective Memory

Agseora Ediyen and Shuri Mariasih Gietty Tambunan

Introduction
Sawahlunto, a city in West Sumatra province, located 90 km from Padang,
the capital city of West Sumatra, was the only Indonesian city to be nomi-
nated to UNESCO as a World Heritage (Syafrini & Fernandes, 2018), an
unusual achievement for a city that had been an abandoned mine and
considered a “dead city.” Sawahlunto was transformed socially and eco-
nomically by embracing the city’s past as a mining city. In reconstructing

A. Ediyen
Department of Literature, Faculty of Humanities, Universitas Indonesia,
Depok, Indonesia
UIN Sjech M Djamil Djambek, Bukittinggi, Indonesia
e-mail: [email protected]; [email protected]
S. M. Gietty Tambunan (*)
Department of Literature, Faculty of Humanities, Universitas Indonesia,
Depok, Indonesia
e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s) 2025 41

M. Budiman, A. Kusno (eds.), Collective Memory, Marginality, and
Spatial Politics in Urban Indonesia.,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-97-4304-9_3
42 A. EDIYEN AND S. M. GIETTY TAMBUNAN

Sawahlunto as a heritage city, the government’s main strategy was to

reconstruct the collective memory of the city’s past, particularly the mem-
ory of chained convicts whom the colonial government had sentenced to
hard labor and sent to the Sawahlunto mines. The government intended
to reconstruct the manner in which the people of Sawahlunto and tourists
should understand the meaning of chained convicts to create opportuni-
ties for local life, tourism, and investment.
Based on numerous documents about the development of the city,
Asoka (2005, p. 162) determined that Sawahlunto’s existence was dimin-
ishing. For over 100 years, the city’s main income had come from the coal
mines, but the income had declined rapidly with the decreasing coal sup-
ply. The people of Sawahlunto left the city and merantau (a specific term
used in Indonesia referring to the act of migrating to the big cities or even
the capital). As the city continued to lose its inhabitants and mining
yielded little return, the government decided to transform the city with
cities such as Batusangkaras’ inspiration.
Many researchers have investigated how a city develops, particularly
those intended for tourism, highlighting issues such as how space is con-
structed, economics, collective memory, and the social and cultural struc-
ture of societies (Conlin & Jolliffe, 2010; Ballesteros & Ramırez, 2007;
Wanhill, 2000). Other researchers have already examined Sawahlunto in
the context of city planning and how it relates to the social and cultural
conditions of societies (Arifman & Teguh, 2014; Nawanir, 2003;
Suprayoga, 2008; Hendry, 2011). Researchers have even specifically stud-
ied the orang rantai in Sawahlunto (Alexander & Wisdiarti, 2017; Fahmi,
2016; Kurniawati & Achnes, 2015). However, researchers have yet to
explore how collective memory has been used to construct the image of
the city in relation to its transformation, particularly in the context of the
memory of the orang rantai.
Given this lack, with this chapter, we examine the role of a museum
tourism site in Sawahlunto and discuss its role in the government’s recon-
struction of the city’s image. We also address how reconstructing the city’s
image was immersed in the politics of collective memory and cultural heri-
tage. This chapter also fills a research gap regarding reconstructing the
meaning of chained convicts. The Sawahlunto city government recalled a
legendary foreman from the history of chained convicts, Soerono, when
naming the tourism site: Lubang Mbah Soero. The government con-
structed Soerono’s heroic imagery in contravention of the people’s collec-
tive memory and the historical writings.
 3 ORANG RANTAI IN SAWAHLUNTO: A STATE-SPONSORED… 43

With this chapter, we aim to analyze how the dominant authority con-
structed the meaning of Sawahlunto’s transformation, and we highlight
the naming of Lubang Tambang Mbah Soero. Recent literature on heri-
tage and power (Schramm, 2015) discussed the process of legitimizing
particular narratives about the past in reference to the relationships
between the state, international bodies (such as UNESCO), and locals
such that the discussion should consider the role of every actor within the
discourse on heritage, power, and ideology. Therefore, we aim to unveil
the complexity of the meaning-making process in constructing the iden-
tity of Sawahlunto as a mining tourism city through a cultural studies
perspective. We conducted our study from January 2016 to February
2017, and our reflective research methods consisted of observations at the
tourism sites, textual analysis of articles in the tabloid Mak Itam, and of a
book that claims to present a historical reading of Sawahlunto (Erman,
2005), and interviews with locals. Some of the main findings show how
making meaning from orang rantai differed for different people as well as
how the meaning was reconstructed to refer to both a hero and a criminal.
This chapter conveys what is at stake in this top-down approach to recon-
structing this state-sponsored heritage project.

Orang Rantai as Heroes

To counter the popular meaning of orang rantai, which refers to crimi-
nals, the government of Indonesia has reconstructed the term to instead
refer to heroes, primarily by naming the tourism site Lubang Tambang
Mbah Soero in reference to a famous orang rantai. Peraturan Daerah
Kota Sawahlunto No 22001 is the policy that authorized this change.
According to this policy, “Sawahlunto, in 2020, will be Kota Wisata
Tambang yang Berbudaya (A Cultured Mining and Tourism City).” Under
this policy, the government developed a number of tourism sites and arts
and cultural events.
For the purposes of this research, the focus will be on one tourism site
in particular that used to be a mining area. Sawahlunto’s past was closely
correlated with orang rantai, prisoners from all over Indonesia who were
sentenced to work as miners. During the early development of the city, the
main discourse focused on how Sawahlunto originated as a colony for
criminals given that the mine workers were mostly orang rantai. To coun-
ter this, the city government reconstructed the idea of the city as a penal
colony, which had been the main historical narrative from the Dutch
44 A. EDIYEN AND S. M. GIETTY TAMBUNAN

colonization period. Each aspect of society has reacted differently to this

change based on their memories of this part of Sawahlunto’s past. We
argue that this is a part of the “tourism-driven heritage authorization
model” (Su, 2018, p. 5) in which the authority, in this case the city gov-
ernment, controls the narrative that constructs the image of the city for
the sake of tourism.
Sawahlunto became a city in 1858 following the discovery of coal in the
Ombilin area by De Groot after De Greve’s expedition in 1868. In the
beginning, Sawahlunto was a large forest, and the people of Sawahlunto
had only begun to develop the land in the form of small farms, but this
changed when the Dutch discovered a large seam of coal in the Ombilin
hills. Once the coal expedition began, the mining city was built in the
1890s. The government began sentencing convicted prisoners to work in
the mines because the locals were not used to working underground
(Erman, 2005, p. 74). In the main area of the city, there was Lubang
Sugar, which had been the main mining area during the colonial era. It is
this site, following the local government’s rebranding, that became one of
the main tourist attractions: Lubang Tambang Mbah Soero.
The government constructed the image of Mbah Soero as a hero using
Mak Itam, a tabloid published by the city’s newspaper. The articles in the
city’s newspaper portrayed Mbah Soero as a hero who was well respected
by both the Dutch and fellow orang rantai. According to the tabloid, he
also spread the teachings of Saminism, a traditional Javanese peasant’ cult,
in Blora before he was transported to Sawahlunto in 1902; he was con-
victed for opposing the Dutch tax policy.
In our analysis of stories in Mak Itam, Samin Surosentiko, whose child-
hood name was Raden Kohar, was presented as a prince or nobleman from
a kingdom in Blora who was actually in disguise among the village people.
He was to be understood as someone who wanted to organize the people
to fight the colonizers, a protector of the people with courage and mysti-
cism (Mak Itam, 2014, p. 33). Among the younger generation who cared
about the Samin Suro Santiko community, Mbah Soero was also depicted
as determined to protect the people and fight the colonizers (Mak Itam,
2013, pp. 13–14). By choosing the name “Mbah Soero” for the main
tourism site in the city, the government used his heroic story to redefine
orang rantai in general.
The tabloid also explains how these heroic characteristics are depicted
in cultural seminars at the local universities and in other venues. One way
 3 ORANG RANTAI IN SAWAHLUNTO: A STATE-SPONSORED… 45

to do this is to borrow the “authoritative voice” from scholars and

researchers to justify this dominant image:

Dr. Syafri Sairin, a professor of anthropology at Universitas Gajah Mada and

UKM in Malaysia. He explained that not all orang rantai, or forced workers
during colonial times, were criminals. Orang rantai and mine workers were
fellow Indonesians who fought the colonizers. Mbah Soero was a clear
example of an orang rantai who was not a criminal. (Mak Itam, 2013,
p. 14, translated by the researcher)

The government followed the authoritative voice of scholars and research-

ers who were quoted in Mak Itam to justify presenting orang rantai
as heroes.
In doing so, the city government did not intend to erase the idea of
orang rantai as criminals, which many had assumed throughout history;
rather, the government built stronger representations of Mbah Soero. As
argued by Kotler and Gertner (2002), who analyzed the reconstruction of
Turkey’s image as a tourism destination, the government tried to repair
the denigrating news coverage of the country without addressing the
roots of why the country was depicted in such a way, which only worsened
the country’s image. Kotler and Garner demonstrated that Turkey shifted
the focus to positive elements because “…. to improve a country’s image,
it may be easier to create new positive associations than try to refuse old
ones” (p. 255).
Kotler and Gertner (2002) argued that these new associations eventu-
ally take over and eliminate historical meanings and associations, and in
Sawahlunto, the government applied similar strategies by creating associa-
tions between the city and the new image of orang rantai as heroes.
Through the character of Mbah Soero as a well-known nobleman with a
strong character, a new understanding of orang rantai would trump the
previously negative connotations associated with the word. The govern-
ment seems to have succeeded in implementing this dominant image of
orang rantai. For example, Pak De Sukadi, one of our interviewees,
believed the narrative that Mbah Soero was actually a nobleman from Java:

Mbah Soero was actually a political prisoner. He came from Blora, Jepara.
He was a prince.” (Sukadi, January 2017)
46 A. EDIYEN AND S. M. GIETTY TAMBUNAN

Sukadi believed in the government’s dominant image, but some members

of society contended that Mbah Soero was never a real person:

Mbah Soero did not actually exist. He was actually a woman, and his job was
to give messages to children. Our friends told us the story. Oh, that’s not
true, he just sold tumbang getuk (traditional food). (Saridan, interview,
February 2017)

The memory of Mbah Soero indeed differs according to different indi-

viduals; as Kusno argued, “memori kolektif sangatlah tidak stabil karena
terus dibentuk, dirajut dan dipertaruhkan oleh masyarakat dan negara
seturut kepentingan tertentu” (2009, p. 10) (“collective memory is unsta-
ble because it is constantly molded, knitted and put at stake by the society
and the state based on their vested interest”). In the case of Sawahlunto,
collective memory can also be unstable, particularly in the face of a domi-
nant government meaning-making process, as we showed above.
The complexity with which people in Sawahlunto perceive orang ran-
tai extends beyond the memory of Mbah Soero. Society itself has also
emphasized heroic images of orang rantai because many fought against
the Dutch colonizers. One respondent, Mbah Adjoem, the son of an
orang rantai foreman, stated that orang rantai were prisoners who were
forced into working but who fought the Dutch colonizers. Another
respondent was Sukadi, another descendant of an orang rantai, explains
his family’s connection to the term, particularly his grandfather:

My grandfather, from my mother’s side, was from the Pekalongan area.

Whenever money (taxes) was taken from the people, he would take the
money back and return it to the people. He would stop the carriage taking
the tax money owned by the Dutch colonizers. The carriage was actually
managed by the palace and taken care of by wedana (palace worker). One
time he killed a Chinese businessman who made salted fish in Pekalongan,
which made him a fugitive. My grandfather from my father’s side whose
name is Mbah Lakik … his land in Wonogiri was taken by the Dutch.
(Sukadi, personal communication, January 2017, translated by the
researcher)

The quotation depicts how members of society reveal the same stories of
the heroic role of orang rantai that is actually in line with the dominant
discourse imposed by the government. Their memories reflect society’s
memory of orang rantai as people who were “hunted” by the Dutch or
 3 ORANG RANTAI IN SAWAHLUNTO: A STATE-SPONSORED… 47

who had their lands forcefully taken by the Dutch. Sukadi considered his
grandfather heroic even though his grandfather’s crime had been killing a
Chinese businessman.
Analyzing the interview responses revealed that the Sawahlunto resi-
dents we spoke with believed that most orang rantai were not actually
criminals but were falsely imprisoned by the Dutch to provide cheap labor:
“They were actually taken away from their original jobs. They were crimi-
nalized. They did nothing wrong but were transformed into orang ran-
tai” (interview with Pak De Mujiono, January 2017). Given that the
Dutch government promised the prisoners better lives if they worked in
the coal mines, we could argue that the respondents’ memories of orang
rantai are dominated by the Dutch government’s exploitation of the men.
We also could argue, however, that the respondents rejected the associa-
tion of orang rantai with criminal activity because they did not want to be
considered the descendants of criminals.
Individuals in Sawahlunto make meaning out of orang rantai through
their family histories and stories that are passed down through the genera-
tions. Evans (2012) discusses how families that migrated from the United
Kingdom to Australia used memories and historical materials to learn
about their family histories, arguing that people can understand their eco-
nomic, social, and cultural histories from these materials as well as from
oral history; the author observed, for example, “Sewing skills were central
to the production of other key items made, owned, and passed on by
women to other women in colonial Australia and used to construct and
record family history” (p. 217). In the case of Sawahlunto, oral history
passed down from one generation to another and historical materials such
as archives were used to justify the family line of orang rantai as heroes.
In this subsection, we revealed how first the local government of
Sawahlunto deconstructed the dominant depiction of orang rantai as
criminals, followed by the people of Sawahlunto themselves. We argue
that the government was attempting to erase the legacy of its role in bring-
ing the orang rantai to Sawahlunto by, for example, naming the main
mining site after Mbah Soero: Instead, the government declared that
orang rantai were heroes. According to Yananda (2014), the image of a
particular space is constructed with easy-to-understand references, in this
case, a nobleman from the past who fought the colonizers. Building this
kind of collective understanding of orang rantai was substantial in trans-
forming Sawahlunto, particularly for investors and potential tourists:
48 A. EDIYEN AND S. M. GIETTY TAMBUNAN

… critical heritage debates stress the aspect of counter memories as well as

the valorization of dissident voices. Thus, heritage is not important in and
of itself, but, rather, in relation to the politics of recognition that are at play
in popular memory. (Schramm, 2015, p. 446)

Our findings show that Sawahlunto exemplifies the characteristics of a

state-sponsored heritage city in which the state, represented by the city
government, becomes the dominant actor and controls the process of
making meaning of the past. However, as Schramm (2015) argued, the
debate on the issue of cultural heritage is necessary for exploring counter-­
memories and the multiplicity of voices in the meaning-making process.
At the same time that the city is constantly reconstructing the popular
memory of Sawahlunto as part of its branding process, which we elaborate
in the next section, local counter-memories can contest the dominant nar-
rative and require negotiating new meanings.

Orang Rantai as Criminals

As argued earlier, the paradigm of orang rantai or chained convicts as
criminals has existed since colonial times, and some members of society in
Sawahlunto consider their descendance from orang rantai a disgrace.
Saridan said that his family refused to be acknowledged as such and con-
sidered this “pencemaran nama baik keluarga,” “ruining the family name”:

We are courageous when referred to as children of orang rantai. I will con-

front this person. We are not descendants of orang rantai. Do not insult us.
I have the courage to say this because my father came to this place with my
mother and they brought one child. It would have been impossible for him
to be a prisoner, because the ship carried 40 people. There were a lot of
people and a lot of passengers, so would be impossible for a prisoner to came
with a wife and a child. The Dutch would not transport non-prisoners in the
ship. (Saridan, personal communication, February 2017)

Kusno (2009) explains that even though collective memory is often pre-
served, it is unavoidable that individuals will forget difficult moments or
moments that do not fit with their preferred memories. Individuals tell
themselves different stories, such as Saridan’s story that his father could
not have been a prisoner if he had come over on the ship with his wife and
child, thereby justifying that he cannot be descended from orang rantai.
 3 ORANG RANTAI IN SAWAHLUNTO: A STATE-SPONSORED… 49

In addition to being remembered as criminals, orang rantai have been

considered “orang buangan,” which literally means “people who are
thrown away.” Sukadi said, “railway workers for the coal mines came in
stages and they came in ships … people in the past called them ‘orang
buangan’ … well, there were more than seven thousands of them.”
Mujiono described that, “orang rantai are unworthy slaves (budak tidak
berharga). They were lucky that they were not killed. They are different
from ‘orang kontrak’ (workers with contracts). Orang kontrak were paid if
they worked. Orang rantai were not paid until they had paid their due.”
These understandings of orang rantai as buangan or as slaves are embed-
ded in the collective memory of the people of Sawahlunto.
In addition to the residents’ collective memory, another source sup-
ports the negative connotations associated with orang rantai: Erman
describes the harrowing trip the men were forced to take to Sawahlunto,
during which they were tortured, beaten, and treated like animals by the
Dutch guards (pp. 29–30). Apart from their treatment by the Dutch,
orang rantai were also treated badly by society. Mujiono explained that
the Dutch government instilled in the population the fear that many of the
orang rantai were murderers from Java; the government’s strategy was
that if a prisoner escaped, local people would report him immediately out
of fear. Locals living in fear of orang rantai would also remain obedient to
the colonial government. Mujiono did tell us that this approach was not
always successful and that many in Sawahlunto remained unafraid of
orang rantai.
Historical writings support this understanding orang rantai’s lower
position in society. For instance, Erman (2005) explains that people from
Nias and Minangkabau who worked as laborers did not want to be consid-
ered on the same level as orang rantai (77); those workers refused to wear
their uniforms because they were nearly the same color as those worn by
orang rantai, which they called “buruh paksa” (“those doing forced
labor”).
Erman’s (2005) findings were mostly derived from colonial documents
and do not address the everyday realities of Sawahlunto society. Most of
the documents are in Dutch and are thus framed from the Dutch coloniz-
ers’ perspective and agenda. Our research findings include interviews with
members of society and show that local Sawahlunto society did not share
the government’s perception or presentation of orang rantai as criminals.
However, differences in how respondents perceive the meaning of orang
rantai occurred because they share different memories about these men
50 A. EDIYEN AND S. M. GIETTY TAMBUNAN

that have of course been influenced by dominant discourses that have been
constructed within society.
We also found that interactions between local people and orang rantai
were extremely limited. The prisons were built near the mines so the pris-
oners could be easily transported, and security around the mines was taken
very seriously to avoid escapes. Adjoem, a respondent, also shared that the
Dutch government restricted the mine workers from having a social life.
Isolating the prisoners ensured that orang rantai would not be a threat to
society, which actually made the miners more independent and coura-
geous (Erman, 2005, p. 87). Limiting the prisoners’ social interactions,
according to Erman, was also a way for the Dutch colonial government to
control the orang rantai population and ensure the continuation of cheap
labor. The total of the government’s efforts at isolation and control of the
orang rantai population are arguably at the root of how the representa-
tion of orang rantai as criminals was cultivated.
Today, members of society in Sawahlunto are affirming or contesting
the dominant understanding of orang rantai. Individual and even com-
munity actions are beginning to construct alternative discourses and even
to challenge existing discourses, for example, by representing orang rantai
differently in theater performances. Mujiono is a member of a theatre
group that is producing a story of an orang rantai man and a Minangkabau
woman whose love was not blessed by the other villagers because they
were from different social strata; in the performance, the concepts of self
and other are used to differentiate orang rantai from the local Minangkabau
people. Mujiono had also proposed making a feature-length film, but the
process was only just beginning during the time of this research.
Sukadi has also written a book about the history of mining in
Sawahlunto, mostly from stories his mother told him. Sukadi and Mujiono
are examples of members of Sawahlunto’s society who have rejected the
government’s dominant depiction of orang rantai. Other works that con-
test the dominant discourse surrounding orang rantai also exist, but these
materials were not widely available at the time of this research. We there-
fore cannot determine the impacts of any of these newer materials on the
ways the people of Sawahlunto understand orang rantai.
The dynamic whereby orang rantai reconstructed as either heroes by
the government or as criminals by other actors reflects the complexity of
heritage, power, and ideology. Schramm (2015) analyzed the process of
establishing the African Burial Ground National Monument in New York
as an official heritage site that had been long awaited by the African
 3 ORANG RANTAI IN SAWAHLUNTO: A STATE-SPONSORED… 51

American community and finally received support by the government.

The land carries great significance regarding the early African American
presence in the northern part of the United States, but actors such as
activist Sonny Carson insist on “the repatriation of the remains of one of
his own ancestors to African soil” (Schramm, 2015, p. 448). This notion
of repatriation does not apparently fit into the official narrative of African
American triumph, which has been constructed by African American
stakeholders and state officials, just as in the existing dominant narrative of
orang rantai. The conflicting sides in this case study, as in Schramm’s
analysis, show that making sense of the past will always entail power plays.
Indeed, the claiming of heritage spaces is in itself an ideological
battleground.

Conclusion
In conclusion, the research findings here show how the Dutch Sawahlunto
city government controlled the narrative regarding orang rantai in
Sawahlunto as part of shaping the city’s identity. When necessary, the men
were criminals, and now they are heroes, but it has been the people in
Sawahlunto who either affirm or contest this depiction. The government
depicted orang rantai as heroes by naming the old mining site Lubang
Tambang Mbah Soero after Mbah Soero, a penal laborer who fought for
the poor and challenged the Dutch colonizers. The government also
extrapolated Mbah Soero’s heroics to represent the general population of
orang rantai. Though most residents affirm this depiction of heroism, our
interviews with locals from Sawahlunto and reported in the tabloid Mak
Itam revealed several opposing ways of understanding orang rantai. The
respondents argued that there is a significant difference between the gov-
ernment narrative and what they believed or had heard.
Complicating matters is that the current construction of orang rantai’s
actions as heroic does not align with how Dutch historical archives and
documents portray orang rantai: In creating a penal colony, the Dutch
colonial government played an important role in constructing orang ran-
tai as criminals. More recent depictions by the government and locals alike
reveal no similarities in understanding what orang rantai mean in trans-
forming Sawahlunto from a mining city to a tourism city. Discussions
regarding how the government, the people’s memory, and historical writ-
ings interpret the term orang rantai are complicated, in that they some-
times overlap and contrast. Such conflicting understandings reveal how
52 A. EDIYEN AND S. M. GIETTY TAMBUNAN

the meaning-making process is heavily embedded within imbalanced

power relationships. The most authoritative player, in this case the govern-
ment, has it seems become the more trustworthy source.
In contrast, the memory of the people, which official authorities often
disregard as a reliable source, has not played a significant role in the
meaning-­making. Reconstructing cities’ images in Indonesia has not been
exclusive to Sawahlunto. But we limited this research to discussing
Lumbang Tambang Mbah Soero as an example of Sawahlunto’s transfor-
mation, but researchers on other tourism sites and other aspects of the city
could offer additional enlightenment narratives and meaning-making in
reconstructing images or memories.
This research contributes to the literature related to the evolution of
tourism in Sawahlunto and opens a door to future studies. Future research-
ers could explore the cultural functions of the government in relation to
its dominant role in meaning-making while re-evaluating its historical
aspects. Larger samples from areas surrounding Sawahlunto and from
diverse ethnic backgrounds would offer other perspectives on the memory
of orang rantai.

Acknowledgments This work was supported by the Universitas Indonesia’s

Research Grant (PITTA 2017) managed by DRPM UI (Grant Number:
NKB-492/UN2.R3.1/HKP.05.00/2017). It was copyedited by ENAGO.

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 CHAPTER 4

Gangsters, Music, and Aremania: Modernity

and the Dynamics of Arek Malang to Defend
their Existence (1970–2000)

Faishal Hilmy Maulida

Introduction
Fundamentally, no history can be separated from the area where it hap-
pens, whether locally, regionally, across a country, or worldwide, and these
geospatial categories have different definitions and applications. Local his-
tory is the study of an event, theme, or structure that occurred in a society
in a given spatial scope and can be as broad as the influence of the event
and the historical process that took place. Local history is a science (histo-
riology), whereas regional history is an administrative, district, and provin-
cial concept. Local and regional histories can be distinguished conceptually
but are difficult to separate while assessing the geographical and spatial
dimensions of history (Zuhdi, 2016, p. 3). Malang Raya (Malang City,

F. H. Maulida (*)
Character Building Development Center, Public Relations Department, Faculty
of Digital Communication and Hotel & Tourism, Bina Nusantara University,
Jakarta, Indonesia
e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s) 2025 55

M. Budiman, A. Kusno (eds.), Collective Memory, Marginality, and
Spatial Politics in Urban Indonesia.,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-97-4304-9_4
56 F. H. MAULIDA

Malang Regency, and Batu City) is located in the highlands and is sur-
rounded by mountain ranges. The coastal areas of southern Malang con-
tribute to the diversity of the region. Malang City, also known as Tribina
Cita, supports students, industries, and tourism. The three pillars were
determined in the Plenary Session of Gotong Royong Malang Municipality
in 1962 (Pemerintah Kotamadya Malang, 1978, pp. 27–30).
Culturally, in addition to the ideals of Malang evident in Tribina Cita,
Malang was known as a barometer of music and boxing in Indonesia
between the 1960s and mid-1980s. This is evidenced by the existence of
national musicians from Malang, such as Ian Antono, Abadi Soesman,
Ucok Harahap, Teddy Sudjaya, Totok Tewel, Noldiek, Wiwie Gang Voice,
and Silvia Sartje, as well as various boxing arenas in the city that produced
national boxing athletes, such as Wongso Suseno, Nur Hasyim, Monod,
and Thomas Americo. Furthermore, Malang is known as the football
barometer of Indonesia, evidenced by the number of clubs, such as PS
Arema, Persema Malang, Persekam Metro FC Kabupaten Malang, and
Persikoba Batu, that performed regionally and nationally between the
mid-1990s and 2000s.
The emergence of the acronym “Arema,” which combines arek (“child”
or “youth”) with the adjective Malang (as an administrative area), signifies
identity for individuals and groups. As the acronym developed, its use was
not limited to arek-arek (anak), meaning native to or domiciled in the
Malang area, but was more broadly used to describe a cultural identity not
limited by spatial and temporal boundaries. Although the name Arek
Malang was initially limited to inter-territorial relations among the youth
in Malang, it was then legitimized by Persatuan Sepakbola (PS) Arema,
which was established on August 11, 1987. The next development was
“Aremania,” a descriptor for PS Arema supporters and a label that was
capable of bridging the divisions among gangs who often fought with
each other depending on which village or group they belonged to from
Malang and its surrounding area.

Rock Music and the Battles Between Villages

“Music reflects people’s thoughts and ways of life,” reads the opening
sentence of a book on modern music (Howard & Lyons, 1962). This
statement implies that music will always change across space and time
given that our thoughts and ways of life are in flux. Nature, personal tal-
ent, awareness of beauty, and the influence of environmental and cultural
 4 GANGSTERS, MUSIC, AND AREMANIA: MODERNITY AND THE DYNAMICS… 57

concerns affect people’s attitudes and responses to music (Hardjana,

2003, p. 37).
The music industry as part of popular culture can reach large numbers
using mass production and distribution, making messages easily accessible
to the wider community (Heryanto, 2012, p. 9). As evidenced in Malang,
music develops dynamically, constantly changing and influencing its audi-
ence, especially youth. The development of rock music in Malang from
the 1960s until the early 1990s is not much different from how this music
developed in other big cities. The fundamental difference is that there is a
much greater appreciation of the creativity of urban rock artists in Malang
City than in other cities.
In the 1960s, the Sukarno regime forbade Western music, especially
British and American music, as not reflecting the nation and character
building of the capitalist state. However, as the government was encourag-
ing its citizens to stay away from rock music, that era in Malang was char-
acterized by the appearance of new musicians, who usually gathered in
what is now Sarinah Plaza, located in the square of Malang City. The first
band to appear in Malang after the events of G30S 1965 was Eka Dasa
Taruna, founded by Lieutenant Colonel Sudarji (Fandoli, 2011).
In the 1970s, several new music groups emerged, but these could only
practice and perform if they were funded by large companies. For exam-
ple, Bentoel and Oepet were sponsored by the biggest cigarette factory in
Malang, and bands such as Zodiak, Panca Nada, Arulan, and Swita Rama
were also sponsored. With that corporate support, Bentoel became one of
the most popular rock groups in the city of Malang. The vocalist, Micky
Jaguar, and drummer, Ian Antono, were famous for being eccentric and
always surprising their fans (Apokalip 2010a, b).
In the 1970s, GOR (Sport Center) Pulosari, located on Kawi Street in
Malang, was a venue often used for rock concerts. It was built on deep
ground and bounded by a wooden tribune that enclosed a large stage
beneath it, a design that ensured that the stadium was soundproof and had
brilliant acoustics. A number of artists, ranging from Panbers, Trencem,
Bentoel, Cockpit, Sylvia Saartje, to Godbless, have played at GOR Pulosari,
a once-prestigious rock concert venue that remains an important artifact
in the local rock and roll saga of the 1980s and early 1990s. Musicians
such as Ikang Fawzi, Power Metal, Gito Rollies, Deddy Stanzah, Iwan
Fals, Nicky Astria, Ita Purnamasari, Slank, and Dewa 19 played at this
sacred venue (Apokalip, 2010a, 2010b).
58 F. H. MAULIDA

By the early 2000s, rock music had suffered losses in Indonesia, both in
numbers of musicians and fans and in the intensity of concerts, largely
because Malang youth had developed other cultural interests, but the
music in Malang continued to change and adapt. Whereas in the 1970s,
the musicians mostly played Western hard rock; in the 1980s, they were
able to create and sing their own songs under the art-rock genre. In the
1990s, the number of local music festivals increased, and this period
became known for the emergence of heavy metal (Ardivitiyanto, 2015,
pp. 55–67).
Rock music developed in Malang from the 1970s to the mid-1990s, a
period that can be considered its golden age. Rock music characters tended
to be masculine, strict, and forthright, and they made strong impressions
on the teenage gangs that emerged during that era. Young people devel-
oped strong primordial ties to their kampung, villages, and were fiercely
territorial about them. Kompas (2011) reported that young people of
Malang City joined gangs such as Argomz (Armada Gombal), Prem
(Persatuan Residivis Malang), Saga (Sumbersari Anak Ganas), Van Halen
(Vederasi Anak Nakal Halangan Enteng), Arpanja (Arek Panjaitan), Arnak
(Armada Nakal), Anker (Anak Keras), Aregrek (Arek-arek Gang Gereja),
and Ermera.
However, there is a difference between the teen gangs that existed in
Malang in the 1970s and those in the 1990s. Whereas the 1970s gangs
displayed their masculinity, according to Hudijono (2012), their 1990s
counterparts had shifted their focus to lifestyle and fashion. Sometimes the
lifestyle reflected the distance and differentiation between anak gedongan
(“rich boys”) and anak kampung (“kampung boys”). Other gangs such as
the River A Complex, D’Jongen, Sexy Jongen, Rameco, NICO, OXI12,
and PK17 used Western terminology in their names (Hudijono et al.
2012, p. 37).
The popularity of gangs in Malang was strengthened by the two local
languages, which to Malang youth are symbols of identity: “Boso Walikan,”
“a language that is flipped,” and “Boso Malangan,” “the language of
Malang people.” Boso Walikan was used during the Indonesian National
Revolution era as a cryptic language to identify intruders among Indonesian
soldiers. In Boso Walikan, words in words are reversed; for instance, “saya”
(“I”) and “kamu” (“you”) are the reverse of “ayas” and “umak.” Some
Javanese words are reversed as well, such as “wedok” (“women”) and
“lanang” (“men”) into “kodew” and “nganal.”
 4 GANGSTERS, MUSIC, AND AREMANIA: MODERNITY AND THE DYNAMICS… 59

Boso Malangan is a street language derived from slang words com-

monly used in Malang. For instance, the Indonesian word “bohong”
(“lying”) is flipped into “ngohob” in Boso Walikan, but since the early
1970s, the youth around the Kayutangan area in Malang have used “pesi”
to mean lying, and youth from Sawahan area say “awad.” Now, the youth
use both “pesi” and “awad,” so that to accuse someone of lying, they no
longer say “Umak ngohob,” the reverse of “Kamu bohong,” which actually
means “You are lying.” Instead, they say “Umak awad” or “Umak pesi”
(Rachmawati, 2012, p. 100).
During the period of Arek Malang, the youth of Malang actively used
Boso Walikan, and the dialect easily signified those originally from Malang
and newcomers. Indeed, youth who can communicate in Boso Walikan
feel a sense of pride and solidarity, and Boso Malangan varies in the differ-
ent regions around Malang, and young people feel pride and solidarity in
being able to communicate with each other and use these languages to
signify their gang involvement.
Meanwhile, teenage gangs are a pressing issue in some countries,
including in Indonesia and especially in Malang. However, owing to the
secretive nature of their organizations, obtaining reliable information
about gangs is challenging. Even countries such as the United States have
presented little research on gangs (White et al., 2008, p. 6), although
gang theorists have identified that members of lower classes who have
been ostracized by society make ripe targets for juvenile gangs (Bursik &
Grasmick, 1993). However, in a local newspaper, the Malang Post, a for-
mer gang member shared the following insight:

In the 1970s–1980s, young people in Malang were fond of making gangs.

They joined in these gangs to have an identity. The purpose of the gangs at
that time was not to do evil, but to be a group in order to survive by forag-
ing. That’s all, really! HM Mochtar (a former gangster). (translated by
the author)

The gang member from the story, HM Mochtar, added that in the early
1980s, some mysterious hitmen called Petrus were targeting people with
criminal backgrounds and gang members, including members of Argomz.
Argomz was considered to be a group of thugs, but in the article, Mochtar
rejected the public’s assumption. He told Zaeni (2008) that Argomz was
just a group of young amateur radio hobbyists, which was the trend at the
time; there were many other amateur radio groups such as Mopret, Renco,
60 F. H. MAULIDA

and Black Embek. The assumption appeared to have arisen because

Argomz did not seem to have a clear purpose, even though Mochtar said
the group owned an amateur radio station as the center of its activities.
Argomz existed for a considerable time until the government hired Petrus
to kill off the gang members. Many, including from Argomz, left town.
Lais Purwandi, another former gang member, told me during an inter-
view that from the 1980s to the mid-1990s, Malang, especially Malang
City, was fertile with rowdy youth gangs:

Gangsters Malang when it's a lot, Bareng area has a gang, Sumbersari have
gangs, Galunggung have gangs, all western (west Malang) first if the night
of the weekend especially Children in Gading, Mbebekan, Mergan,
Bandulan, Sumbersari, which is obviously the term ijen (Ijen Boulevard) to
the west, if the night does not dare to watch the cinema night in Kelud
(cinema on the street Kelud, Malang), Lais Purwandi (Interview, January
21, 2015). (translated by the author)

He reported that the Bareng area was dubbed the lion cage. Every night
of the week, there was always a “tukang palak/tukang target” (someone
who takes money by force), and every night, the police would enter the
village and arrest the thugs. There were famous gangs, such as the English
gangs in the Kasin area and the German and Nazi gangs in the Bareng area
who wore costumes and jackets with the Swastika insignia. The most dan-
gerous gangs were Ancor from the Jodipan region, Texas from the Oro-­
oro Dowo region, Segal (Setan Galunggung), SAS (Combined Oro-oro
Dowo and Kauman), and Aregrek (Arek-arek Gang Gereja), the oldest
and most frightening, from the Galunggung region. There was also a gang
called Lindungan Nuklir from Linu, in the area of Bareng, Malang.
The success of rock music and the emergence of gangster communities
in Malang cannot be entirely separated from the culture attached to the
city, which is the culture of the people, Arek. The Arek are characterized
as being strong-willed, loyal, egalitarian, aggressive, open to changes, and
easy to adapt. Their stereotypical personality can be summarized in an
idiom, “njaba njero padha” (“it is the same inside or out”), meaning we
are all the same whether you are from the area or outside the area.
The open and egalitarian culture of Arek made Malang open to the
influence of rock music and gang culture when they were introduced
through Western movies and radio and music concerts. Njaba njero padha
indicates a sense of openness to newcomers, a concept specifically present
 4 GANGSTERS, MUSIC, AND AREMANIA: MODERNITY AND THE DYNAMICS… 61

in East Java province; another Indonesian city with this culture is Surabaya
(Sutarto, 2004, pp. 1–13). Malang’s youth accepted new culture in the
form of rock music and gangster culture, and the area’s openness is critical
to the rise of both in Malang.
The existence of gang culture cannot be separated from the collective
memory of Malang City during the colonial and post-revolutionary era,
which was characterized by violence and conflict. According to Tjamboek
Berdoeri (alias of Kwee Thiam Tjing), regarding the tragic riot in the
Chinese community in Malang, Jawa Timur, on July 21, 1964, fields were
destroyed and looted, and Chinese women were raped. The riots started
when the Dutch colonizers returned after the independence of Indonesia,
and the Chinese community was suspected of supporting the colonizers
(Berdoeri, 2004). The revolutionary era brought back memories of vio-
lence and conflict that were still being felt during modernization attempts
after independence.
The emergence of gangsters and the hype of rock music in Malang
fueled the desire to identify as Arek Malang. “Malang people,” particu-
larly the youth, created a movement based on a unique culture that com-
prised elements from rock music and gangs and that ultimately represented
a form of solidarity for the Arema football club. Later, this phase trans-
formed into a tight-knit community bonded under the umbrella Aremania.

Aremania and the Dynamics of National Football

To explain the dynamics of Malang’s social structure, particularly Arek
Malang, here, I explore the emergence of Aremania as a counterweight to
the masculinity of rock music and the emergence of teen gangs from the
1970s until the mid-1990s. Aremania emerged as a group of PS Arema
football supporters who were able to provide a more complex expression
of Arek Malang. The emergence of PS Arema in Indonesian football
changed the typical lifestyle of young people in Malang, who preferred to
express themselves through football as opposed to gang activity. Rock
music at the time had also begun to lose its prestige after there were no
longer venues for performing. GOR (Sport Center) Pulosari became a
shopping center, and rock music audiences slowly started to attend games
at Stadium Gajayana instead.
The MC (host) of music in Malang, Ovan Tobing, the founder of
Aremania, invited music lovers to attend PS Arema matches. Persema
Malang, a prestigious club founded in 1953, had been the idol of Malang
62 F. H. MAULIDA

people before the emergence of PS Arema, but the people of Malang grad-
ually came to call themselves Arema from Arek Malang because it was
more relatable and better connected to their growing community identity.
At that time, music lovers became Arema supporters, and so did Persema
supporters, and even gangs in villages in Malang unified themselves under
Arema. Discreetly and gradually, Arema erased its association with the
identities and habits of Malang youth gang and replaced it with Aremania,
representing rabid fandom for the team, the sport, and the local identity.
The shift in Malang football community culture began in the early
1990s, from Ngalamania, support for Persema football club, to Aremania,
support for PS Arema, and continued until the late 2000s. Several circum-
stances enforced this shift, including how easily the name Arema was
derived from “Arek Malang.” The term made the notion of solidarity easy
to grasp and elicited a sense of attachment to Malang culture, which in
turn elicited a sense of belonging among the people.
The other factor that affected the shift in allegiance from Persema
Malang to PS Arema was that even though it was a new team established
only in 1987, Arema consistently won more matches than Persema
Malang. In fact, Arema won the Football Association of Indonesia’s (PSSI)
Galatama (the main league) in 1992–1993, an accomplishment that cer-
tainly played a role in citizens of Malang enthusiastically attending matches.
A third factor that drew youth support in the 1980s and 1990s for a shift
in the Malang area from a focus on rock music and gangs to football was
the fact that Ovan Tobing and Lucky Acub Zaenal, important figures in
the rock music community in Malang, were co-founders of Arema.
Arema was well-loved as a privately owned football club and later a
symbol of resistance against Persema Malang, a local government-owned
“red-plated” club. The fact that Arema was privately owned meant that
the club needed Aremania to buy tickets to help sustain the team rather
than barging through the stadium gates without paying, which was com-
mon practice at the time. The team also encouraged supporters from out
of town to attend matches and support the team. Over time PS Arema
became the pride of the city, instilling in its citizens a sense of unity,
belonging, and responsibility that had not previously existed.
PS Arema’s long journey to Galatama cannot be separated from its
founding as a football club. Muntholib (2009, pp. 17–24) offers a com-
prehensive understanding of this club’s history. It started with a discussion
between Ovan Tobing and Lucky Acub Zainal, who were then invited to
meet Dirk Sutrisno, the owner of Armada 86. Following a long discussion
 4 GANGSTERS, MUSIC, AND AREMANIA: MODERNITY AND THE DYNAMICS… 63

between Lucky, Ovan, and Dirk, the three agreed to establish the Galatama
club, and Dirk agreed that to register his club with PSSI. The club’s name,
however, would be changed from Armada 86 to Arema 86.
In May 1987, following the team’s formation, Arema 86 immediately
started work on promotion; it was a new team that was to compete at the
national level, but it was not widely known by the people of Malang. As I
noted earlier, football fans in Malang were still generally supporting
Persema Malang, which played in Perserikatan. On August 11, 1987,
Malang Mayor Tom Uripan formally changed the name Arema 86 to PS
Football Club Arema, and Lucky Acub Zaenal, Dirk Sutrisno, and Yusuf
attended the ceremony. PS Arema was the name it would play under to
compete in Galatama.
During the Galatama era, Arema supporters tended to be violent fans,
the same as English hooligans, and some Malang youth gangs supported
Arema. At the stadium, gangs would compete to be the loudest, and dur-
ing that time, a rivalry took shape between Surabaya and Malang support-
ers; vehicles with N plates (for Malang) were regularly damaged in
Surabaya, as were Surabaya vehicles with L plates in Malang. In 1992, the
police conducted a razzia (raid) on the people of Surabaya in Malang to
prevent violence (Psilopatis, 2002, p. 3). Even in the early days of Arema,
as Alyverdana (2012, pp. 82–83) observed, some people considered the
original PS Arema fans “terrible.” In the early 1990s, they were called
“Pasukan Bodrex” (“young people who like to make riot”). The early
Arema fans were still teenagers, and this young fan group has always been
the scapegoat for chaotic events that occurred in the PS Arema matches.
In 1988, the Arema Fans Club (AFC) was established, and the first
chairman was Ir. Lucky Zaenal (Psilopatis, 2002, p. 18). Initially, there
were 13 korwil (area coordinators), who were stewards of Arema support-
ers in villages or areas of Malang. According to the article entitled
“Aremania Junjung Sportivitas,” published by Bestari magazine (2001a,
156), Arema supporters perceived AFC as being set off from other sup-
porters; in response, AFC, which had once been regarded as too exclusive
to accept most Arema supporters, began to encourage harmony between
supporters. AFC was disbanded sometime in 1994, according to Lucky
Acub Zaenal because of time constraints and issues about regeneration.
After the dissolution of AFC, the term Aremania began to be used to
refer to Arema supporters, and at the same time, the gang members who
had been young in the late 1980s had matured by the mid-1990s and had
moved away from gang activity. Meanwhile, sociological changes in
64 F. H. MAULIDA

Indonesia and prevention efforts by some Aremania figures kept new

gangs from emerging in Malang. In another article in Bestari (2001a, b,
p. 156), Gusnul Yakin, a former Arema coach, noted that although it was
unclear how exactly the term Aremania had appeared, it united Arema
supporters. Ovan Tobing and some of his colleagues started using the
name in mid-1994 at the same time that Ovan started wearing the first
jacket bearing the term Aremania, permanently attaching the name to
Arema supporters.
Possibly the height of the violence of Malang football fans during the
1990s was the 1991 tragedy at Galatama XI between Petrokimia and PS
Arema. During games, Arema fans were aggressive and forced authorities
to evacuate the stadium in a riot that resulted in four people being injured
and damage to homes and cars (Jawa Pos, 1991, p. 15). Throughout the
League Indonesia Perserikatan XXIV 1990/1992 competition between
Persema Malang and Persegres Gresik, Arek-arek Malang terrorized the
Persegres players who were practicing at the Gajayana stadium. They not
only cursed from the stands but also spat on Persegres players when they
were leaving the stadium. Even on the day of the match, they threw stones
onto the pitch that caused significant interruptions, and the chaos contin-
ued after the whistle; some Persegres players were locked in the locker
room for several hours.
As dynamics in the world of national football changed and gang-gengan
culture in Malang dissipated around the mid-1990s, Malang supporters
too began to change. Negative images of Malang’s supporters, especially
Aremania, remain, but in 2000, Aremania was recognized as having the
best supporters in Indonesia. When thousands of supporters came to
Jakarta for the Big Eight of the Ligina VI round, PSSI Chairman Agum
Gumelar was impressed by the creative and sporting conduct of the Arema
supporters at Gelora Bung Karno Main Stadium, Senayan, Jakarta.
Aremania as a community of football supporters offered a sense of iden-
tity that youth at the time of its inception found very attractive. Owing to
its geographically remote location, Malang was mostly isolated from other
cities in East Java, specifically, Surabaya, and the youth in Malang were
labeled as troubled. Aremania emerged in Malang out of the community’s
desire to create a unifying identity; in the same way that the young people
had accepted rock music and gang culture, Aremania offered an attractive
sense of belonging.
 4 GANGSTERS, MUSIC, AND AREMANIA: MODERNITY AND THE DYNAMICS… 65

Conclusion
When analyzing the emergence of gangs in different villages and the love
of rock music among the youth of Malang, there emerges an expression of
modernity from the structure of middle-class society. Young people con-
sumed modern commodities and lifestyles brought with global currents.
In Malang, the love of rock music in the 1970s was heavily influenced by
Western music. The 1970s brought the rock music of the United States
and England to Malang, and cinema from the early 1970s to mid-1990s
was dominated by Western films. Many of the gang-themed movies at the
time targeted young people, especially the middle class, leading young
people to mimic the celebrities in the films.
From the 1970s to the beginning of 2000, the emerging transforma-
tion of culture and modernity that was controlled by the middle class
began to affect the structure of other social classes in Malang society. Over
time, rock music and gang culture were no longer monopolized by the
middle class but became more widespread. The Arek Malang identity was
strict, straightforward, and uncompromising on the surface, and although
this identity was not entirely the product of rock music and gang culture,
they were considered factors. Anwar Hudijono classified gang culture at
the time as “gedongan” and “anak kampung.” In part of the cultural shifts
at the time, the emergence of Aremania culture interrupted the passion of
Arek Malang for rock music and gang life to emphasize unity between
people even as it represented the same hard, straightforward, and uncom-
promising character that identified Arek Malang character.
In addition to the inherent character of Arek Malang, the cultural char-
acteristic of Malang as being open to change and easy to adapt also played
a role in forming Aremania as a new urban culture. This characteristic
emerged in Malang out of political disruptions such as the time during the
colonial period when Malang was named a gemeente, a municipality, on
April 1, 1914. Political events exert a significant impact on the openness
of a city’s residents to newcomers, and rock music resonated with the
youth because it fit their firm, straightforward, and uncompromising per-
sonalities. The intersection of social, political, and cultural values in
Aremania as a new urban culture in Malang became the unifying element
of Arek Malang, transforming Aremania into a unifying identity free of
gang culture.
According to Benny Hoedoro Hoed, cultural transformation is based
on the wishes of communities, but desires based in the past cannot be
66 F. H. MAULIDA

fulfilled; change will not manifest if the attitude is not based on modernity.
Modernity, however, is endogenous and tends to discard things in a cul-
ture that are associated with tradition (Hoed, 2014, p. 230). In Malang,
there was a shift from music and gang culture to Aremania, but there has
been no cultural shift from the strict, straightforward, and uncompromis-
ing character of Arek Malang over time. Even if things change on the
surface, what is important is that the identity of Arek Malang is main-
tained from the Aremanian era.

Acknowledgments This work was copyedited by ENAGO.

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 CHAPTER 5

Urban Regeneration and Images

of the “Other” in Cek Toko Sebelah (2016)

Shuri Mariasih Gietty Tambunan

and Maria Regina Widhiasti

Introduction
Discussions about the idea of cities allow us to understand how social
change occurs in everyday reality. Urban spaces have always been impor-
tant aspect of cities in many films that carry with it particular narratives
about cities. Consequently, the portrayal of urban problems in films has
become a means to understand how power and the struggle for power
operate in urban settings. As argued by Mennel (2008), “power relations
are organized by social differences in class, gender, age, race, and ethnicity,
which produce urban patterns and processes” (p. 15).
The representation of urban life in films reflects the types of power rela-
tions that affect the social and cultural problems of cities. In Indonesia,
Paramaditha (2011) argued that post-New Order filmmakers “portray
characters who acknowledge their problems in the modern city but choose

S. M. Gietty Tambunan (*) • M. R. Widhiasti

Department of Literature, Faculty of Humanities, Universitas Indonesia,
Depok, Indonesia
e-mail: [email protected]; [email protected]

© The Author(s) 2025 69

M. Budiman, A. Kusno (eds.), Collective Memory, Marginality, and
Spatial Politics in Urban Indonesia.,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-97-4304-9_5
70 S. M. GIETTY TAMBUNAN AND M. R. WIDHIASTI

to keep their desires alive by redefining their relation to space. In the end,
they are not victims but rather people with agency to negotiate in the city”
(p. 510). Indonesian films, particularly those produced since the New
Order era, have not only problematized urban issues but, most impor-
tantly, also portrayed how agency works in contesting or negotiating with
imbalanced power relations in the urban context, including in the case
study chosen for this research.
Cek Toko Sebelah (CTS) is an Indonesian comedy film released in
December 2016 and directed by Ernest Prakasa, who also co-wrote the
script. Ernest Prakasa is a Chinese Indonesian comedian who often uses
his ethnic background as material for his stand-up comedy and some of
the films he has produced and directed, such as Ngenes released in 2015
and CTS (2016). The representation of Chinese Indonesians in Indonesian
popular culture has always been problematic, particularly because of sys-
tematic discrimination against the Chinese. They face ongoing attempts to
eradicate their ethnic identity from the political and social discourse of
Indonesian public culture, as elaborated by Heryanto (1998), especially
under the Assimilation Law during the New Order era.
The meaning of “Chineseness” in Indonesia has evolved throughout
history and will always be in a state of flux: “In what appears to be a
response to the violence, a new recognition of Chinese Indonesians and
their long history of civil predicaments has become one of the most popu-
lar features in contemporary literature, fine arts, and films” (Heryanto,
2008, p. 71). Therefore, any cultural texts representing Chinese
Indonesians, particularly after Reformasi, convey an ideological battle-
ground in which the relationship of power between minorities and majori-
ties needs to be constantly challenged.
In an interview with kompas.com, the director, Ernest Prakasa, who
also plays the main character in the film, explains that he did not intention-
ally address the subject of Chinese Indonesians in the film; even the issue
of pluralism was an accidental theme of the film because, according to
Ernest, the film attempts to derive humor from the theme of family.
However, he also admits that by choosing a mixed-ethnic marriage
between the characters of Yohan (Chinese Indonesian) and Ayu (Javanese),
the conflict that arises between the father and Yohan is actually multicul-
turalism. The film also invokes the 1998 riot, which becomes a back-
ground story providing a reason for the father’s decision to rebuild the
family store. CTS covers issues such as the generation gap, family (kin-
ship), and the restructuring of urban space. Most importantly, these
 5 URBAN REGENERATION AND IMAGES OF THE “OTHER” IN CEK TOKO… 71

challenges are articulated within the context of the identity of Chinese

Indonesians.
The film tells the story of a father, Afuk (Chew Kin Wah), who intends
to bequeath his store to one of his two sons, Yohan (Dion Wiyoko) and
Erwin (Ernest Prakasa). However, the son he has chosen, Erwin, is already
a successful young executive and is soon to be promoted to branch man-
ager in Singapore; he does not want the store. The older son, Yohan, who
works as a photographer, does want to take over the store, but he has a
difficult relationship with his father because of an arrest for drug posses-
sion. Afuk also does not approve of Yohan’s marriage to Ayu.
Previous research on the film has argued that CTS depicts social norms
and issues of diversity (Nathania & Sukendro, 2018; Radika, 2019; Anton,
2018; Hartanti, 2018) or the audience’s meaning-making process of how
multiculturalism is represented in the film (Kalangi, 2018). Even though
the discussion about Chinese Indonesians in the context of multicultural-
ism and tolerance is a significant aspect of the film, the film problematizes
how urban spaces have always been catalysts for change. Progress and
modernity represented by the skyscrapers of the city have put to one side
or even eradicated the “other” spaces in the city.
This research aims to explore how urban dwellers negotiate these con-
stant changes or urban regeneration. The film tries to salvage fragments of
what is left of the urban space through the representation of a toko kelon-
tong and reconstructs this other space as a substantial part of the multiplic-
ity and dynamic transformation of urban life. The textual analysis of the
film is conducted from a cultural studies perspective by examining how
narratives and cinematographic elements, such as the use of lighting, mise-­
en-­scene, and continuity in editing, are used to convey particular issues.
These issues are related to how urban regeneration in Jakarta should be
problematized, including the threat it poses to the continuation of toko
kelontong.

Images of the “Other” Urban Space

CTS (2016) portrays the dynamics of everyday life in an urban setting,
contrasting the images of Toko Jaya Baru, the small business owned by
Afuk around which the storyline revolves, against the rest of the city. The
first five minutes of the film establish the context: A series of images rep-
resent different parts of the city. In the first shot of the main character,
Erwin is walking hastily along the clean, well-designed pavement of the
72 S. M. GIETTY TAMBUNAN AND M. R. WIDHIASTI

urban center, representing a young, successful executive. His sophisticated

clothes, the smartphone in his hand, and his upmarket briefcase depict his
social class and position in the city. The skyscrapers in the background
further emphasize this characterization. Erwin becomes a signifier of the
modern urban part of the city that is conveyed at the beginning of the film.
In the scenes that follow, the audience is introduced to Toko Jaya Baru
and Afuk, Erwin’s father. The images here are quite different from the
beginning shots, as they portray an “other” space in the city. Another
shop, Toko Makmur Abadi, owned by Nandar, is Afuk’s competition.
Previously, there had been only one toko kelontong in that area, Toko
Makmur Abadi, but Afuk’s original store was destroyed during the 1998
riot in which the angry mob destroyed businesses owned by Chinese
Indonesians. After that, Afuk relocated his store next to Nandar’s store,
creating competition between the two. The two stores are depicted as
typical toko kelontong in an urban area in Indonesia. Located in a lower- to
middle-class housing complex, the fenced-in land next to the shops is
abandoned. This reflects the fact that the area is still being developed and
is therefore part of the urban regeneration process.
People in Jakarta need to navigate their everyday lives in this disarray of
displacement due to commercial expansion, for example, new shopping
malls and high-rise buildings. Spaces such as toko kelontong have become
classified as other in contrast with these commercial expansions.
Editing is also used in the film to depict the idea of everyday reality
outside the two stores. A bread seller with his bicycle cart is used to reflect
spatial continuity in the editing (Bordwell & Thompson, 2005). Spanning
from a high to middle angle shot, in the opening scene (00:00:17), the
camera follows the movement of the bread seller as he greeted the owners
of the two stores, which becomes the scene that introduces the audience
to the toko kelontong spaces. Spatial continuity in this scene is emphasized
by the bread seller’s movement from one shot to another. The audience
follows his movements between the two stores, and as our eyes move with
his, we also witness the day-to-day routines in this other part of the city,
which is quite different from the area where Erwin works. The gap
between this part of the city and the modern urban representation is also
shown in the scenes when Erwin first comes to the store after Afuk has
asked him to take it over.
Erwin has taken a month’s leave from his upscale office, and when he
visits, the mise-en-scène portrays the contrast between Erwin surrounded
by high-rise buildings and his father’s shabby-looking store. The choice of
 5 URBAN REGENERATION AND IMAGES OF THE “OTHER” IN CEK TOKO… 73

images in the sequence is used to emphasize the urban–other contrast

between Erwin’s urban apartment and the store with a mouse roaming
around the dirty floor. His look of disgust when he sees the store reflects
the disgust and reluctance that he feels toward being present in this
other space.
Another editing technique is utilized in the film to emphasize the nar-
ration. In one particular scene (00:28:38), there are overlapping shots of
(1) a portrayal of Erwin’s anxious expression while sitting in his apartment
among the skyscrapers of Jakarta and (2) the view from his apartment.
This accentuates the different spatial imagery of Erwin’s upper middle-­
class environment from his father’s toko kelontong. Furthermore, the
choice to present a bird’s-eye view of the store’s environment could be
interpreted as Erwin’s perspective on the store, looking down at it from
his skyscraper apartment. Through the use of visual imagery, the film
heightens the hierarchy between the toko kelontong and Erwin’s modern
urban environment. This notion will be further discussed in the following
subsection.

“Cleaning Up” the City

As mentioned earlier, the dynamic transformation of the city is represented
in the film through contrasting images of the modern, urban spaces repre-
sented by Erwin, and the “other” space represented by Toko Jaya Baru.
The premise of the film is that Afuk does not want to sell his store to
Johan, a developer. Johan and his oversexualized secretary epitomize the
power of the city’s authorities in refining the city and justifying purchasing
Afuk’s shop as part of a modernization program for economic progress. In
the scene when Johan is introduced as a potential buyer, his Mercedes
Benz sports car confirms his social class as he drives slowly past both stores.
The car is obviously out of place, but Johan’s scenes reflect the removal of
the other spaces of the city as authority such as his stakes its claim over
public spaces. Johan’s desire to purchase the shop can be read as an attempt
to cleanse the city of spaces that do not fit into its development program.

This drive to “cleaning up” the city has been centrally constructed around
class-based discourses; the drive to clean up the city, in effect, becomes inex-
tricably linked with an attempt to purge the city of the poor. (Fernandes,
2004, p. 2421)
74 S. M. GIETTY TAMBUNAN AND M. R. WIDHIASTI

In many cases, owners who are considered unfit are evicted for the sake of
progress, and in this film, the toko kelontong is the undesirable space.
Although it is not clearly explained in the film what the developer will do
with the stores, the inference is that the buildings will be demolished for
new buildings.
It is important to contextualize this discussion within the social and
political conditions of Jakarta, particularly those after the riot in 1998.
Superblocks were built to attract people to live in city centers and expunge
the traumatic image of the city after the riot. Budiman (2011, 2017)
argues that the combination of private housing, shopping centers, enter-
tainment, and business spaces gave the inhabitants a sense of security, and
the commercialization of public spaces increased rapidly: “Other mega
projects such as the new town, shopping malls and the recent superblocks
have the quality of fleeing from the distress of the urban environment”
(Kusno et al., 2011, p. 473). These megaprojects did not, in reality, solve
urban problems but instead created new problems. For example, spaces
that did not fit the blueprint of these mega projects were undesirable and
automatically removed. In other words, urban regeneration, which devel-
opers claim improves the esthetic of city spaces, actually generated class-­
based discrimination.
Spaces in the urban setting are fragmented. Winarso (2011), comment-
ing on urban dualism in Jakarta, explains:

There are “villages” close to sophisticated residential estates; informal com-

mercial areas adjacent to modern malls and shopping centers; and kampungs
(an Indonesian word for an informal and incrementally developed settlement
in an urban area) surrounded by modern office buildings, apartments, and
condominiums. (p. 164)

Jakarta, just as other large cities do worldwide, contains areas that are
considered modern, such as the sophisticated residential areas and high-­
rise buildings depicted in this film. These parts of the city reaffirm Erwin’s
characterization as a modern, urban flaneur who belongs to the sophisti-
cated part of Jakarta, whereas his father, Afuk, belongs to the other part.
Urban regeneration affirms urban dualism, in which the sophisticated and
unsophisticated sections of the urban landscape become more distinctive.
Urban regeneration has also intruded into the everyday lives of urban
inhabitants, particularly small business owners.
 5 URBAN REGENERATION AND IMAGES OF THE “OTHER” IN CEK TOKO… 75

As a city becomes denser with people and activities, space becomes a pre-
cious commodity. Thus, a city consciously commodifies and regulates the
spaces. In time, proximity attracts growth of population, economic activi-
ties, and diverse functions. (Nasution, 2015, p. 4)

In his research, Nasution (2015) argues that the city constantly commodi-
fies and uses any available space. The marginalized populations in Hong
Kong and Jakarta, for example, appropriate and configure their urban
spaces, while the elitists of the city dominate the production of urban
space, value these spaces, and work with private sector actors such as devel-
opers to profit from these marginalized unprofitable spaces, such as toko
kelontong.
Raco and Tunney (2010) conducted research on the small businesses
evicted from the Olympic Village site in East London in 2007 under the
justification of redevelopment. Developers and the city authorities regu-
lated what an ideal urban area should look like: “Urban development
becomes converted into the production of commodified urban spaces that
radically restructure the quotidian, day-to-day lives of individuals, busi-
nesses and communities” (Raco & Tunney, 2010, p. 4). One of the most
significant consequences was the radical restructuring of the everyday lives
of the individuals in the cleared spaces, which is also represented in CTS.
The day-to-day lives of the people connected to the store, particularly
Afuk’s employees, are disturbed. Near the end of the film, when Erwin
tells his father that he has decided to take the job in Singapore and will not
take over the store, Afuk decides to sell the store. The sequence of shots
in this particular scene shows Erwin celebrating his job promotion in
Singapore with his colleagues and girlfriend while Afuk distributes sever-
ance money to his employees. After receiving his severance money, an
employee asks his friend, “What kind of job should we do now?,” demon-
strating the hopelessness and disruption caused by the sale. The store’s
symbolism will be explained in the next section of this chapter.

Toko Kelontong: A Vehicle of Tangible Memory

and a Communal Space

For the characters in the film, the store is more than just a physical space
in the urban setting; it carries tangible memories of family values and acts
as a communal space. In an earlier scene, as Erwin explains to his girlfriend
76 S. M. GIETTY TAMBUNAN AND M. R. WIDHIASTI

about the developer who wants to buy the store, he talks about the senti-
mental value of the store for his father:

Erwin: He doesn’t want to sell it …

Nad: Why?
Erwin: Well, he has built that store with mom for years. It has sentimen-
tal value.
Nad: If the price is okay, why not?
Erwin: Well, money can’t always buy everything, I guess.
(Servia et al., 2016, 00:46:45)

Even though Erwin eventually decides not to take over the store, he
understands why his father does not want to sell it. Moreover, the film
posits that despite the class-based conflict, Afuk does not consider money
a significant factor in his decision to keep the store. For Afuk (Servia et al.,
2016, 01:00:05), the store is something he and his wife built from noth-
ing. This is emphasized when Yohan, the older son, explains to Erwin why
he wants to take over the store.

When dad opened the store, it was a difficult time for him. You were very
young at that time. We were in a lot of debt and when dad is stressed out,
he lashes out at me. Fortunately, Mom always convinced me that it hap-
pened because of the difficult situation. She was always really nice to me. I
want to take over the store not because I envy you. It’s because it’s the last
memory of mom that I can still hold on to. (Servia et al., 2016, 01:22:10)

For Afuk, Erwin, and Yohan, the store is a vehicle of memory, particularly
related to the late mother’s important role in each of their lives. As Kusno
(2010) observed, “Buildings serve as a reminder of the practices of the
past” (p. 3), and Afuk’s toko kelontong in its physical form has become a
reminder of Afuk’s past, particularly his late wife’s memory. This reflects
how nostalgia toward the tradition of toko kelontong manifests in the build-
ing itself. It also exemplifies the anxiety of Chinese Indonesians over fad-
ing traditions.
Other scenes visually depict how the store becomes a space that helps
Afuk in particular to remember his late wife. In the scene in which Afuk is
alone in his empty store, saying goodbye for the last time, the minimal
lighting accentuates the sad and gloomy ambiance of the soundtrack, and
he experiences flashbacks to when his wife was still alive and his children
were playing inside the store. Bordwell and Thompson (2005) suggest
 5 URBAN REGENERATION AND IMAGES OF THE “OTHER” IN CEK TOKO… 77

that flashbacks are used to contrast present day and past relationships,
even if they momentarily disrupt the continuity of the story. Using flash-
backs, CTS compares two different shots to make a point, specifically to
highlight the correlation between the store and the memory of the late
mother: “But the past is not only recalled; it is incarnate in the things we
build and the landscapes we create. We make our environment comfort-
able by incorporating or fabricating memorabilia” (Lowenthal, 1975,
p. 7). Memories are incarnate or embodied in the physical space of the
store, making it a meaningful space for the main characters even as it is
being threatened with demolition.
As mentioned above, the soundtrack in this scene also signifies the store
as a tangible memory for Afuk: As Afuk begins to cry in his empty store,
the song “Berlari Tanpa Kaki,” or “Running Without One’s Feet,”
reaches its climax. The refrain speaks about being tough (“tegar” in
Indonesian) upon losing a loved one. The audience is invited to make
sense of the memory of the mother, which is embodied in the store visual-
ized by the flashback:

From moment to moment, the audience member extracts information from

non-diegetic sources to generate the emotional information he or she needs
to make a coherent story in the diegesis … Music significantly occurred with
other cinematic sources of support, such as montage and mise-en-scène,
which were found to influence inference processes. (Cohen, 2001, p. 254)

The music assists the audience in understanding what is going on in the

scene. Visual and audio elements help construct the store (toko kelontong)
as a vehicle of tangible memory.
Furthermore, Lefebvre, in his book The Production of Space, constructs
stores as communal spaces; he argues that space is produced socially and
that knowledge is produced in that particular space. The word “produc-
tion” entails the social interactions that eventually construct a space. As
individuals come together and start to interact with one another in a loca-
tion, for example, in a toko kelontong, these interactions create a new space:
“Space is practiced place, and space is produced by the creativity of the
people using the resources of the other” (Giles & Middleton, 1999,
p. 111). As a physical building, a store cannot yet be considered a space; it
only becomes a space, particularly a communal space, when individuals
interact there and engage with each other and the space. For example,
Kuncoro, an employee who speaks slowly and is the newest addition to the
78 S. M. GIETTY TAMBUNAN AND M. R. WIDHIASTI

Toko Jaya Baru family, is portrayed in contrast with, for example, the femi-
nine Naryo, who often teases Kuncoro. Their interaction reflects the
everydayness of the store as a communal space.
In CTS (2016), the store is portrayed as a communal space not only for
the employees and the owner but also for the inhabitants of the surround-
ing neighborhood. In a scene after Afuk has decided to sell the store, he
asks Nandar, who used to be his competitor, to take care of his customers:

Nandar: How about our clients, the small stores?

They have to go to Pasar Induk, which is very far from here.
Afuk : Please take care of my customers.
(Servia et al., 2016, 01:03:38)

Even though they were once competitors, in this scene the two characters
express camaraderie in their reasons for running their businesses. It also is
not merely a source of income for Nandar; he also cares about his custom-
ers, who need a place to buy the products they re-sell in their warung
(small stores). Afuk’s request for Nandar to take care of his customers also
reflects the store owner–customer relationship, which is not only based on
economic relations but also on social interactions and creating a commu-
nal space.
As Nasution (2015) argued, the marginal spaces in the urban context,
for example, kampung areas, or in this case study, toko kelontong, share the
characteristics “negotiation, flexibility & adaptability, collaboration, and
collectivity” (p. 4). As the inhabitants of the marginalized spaces navigate
through their everyday lives, they often creatively negotiate and work with
what they have to survive:

Marginal space intelligence narrates how space can be collectively produced,

embedded with meaning, as well as, motivates its inhabitants to move for-
ward with certain goals. Spaces are a place for social struggle as well as cel-
ebration of the collective goals. The lack of resources is overcome by the
formation of collective goals, dialog, and negotiation, and the complex
multi-layer of space. The absence of resources becomes the main resources.
(Nasution, 2015, p. 11)

We interpret the film’s construction of toko kelontong as a communal space

as a collective product of all of its inhabitants. Furthermore, even though
Afuk and Nandar are business rivals, within the marginalized space, they
 5 URBAN REGENERATION AND IMAGES OF THE “OTHER” IN CEK TOKO… 79

share a common goal, which creates a sense of community within their

toko kelontong.
The social relationship and collectiveness manufactured in these small
businesses is contrasted with the developing retail system of the mini-­
market in Jakarta. In the last scene, the former employees of Toko Jaya
Baru are hired by Yohan and Ayu’s new businesses (a photography studio
and a bakery) located in the space of Afuk’s toko kelontong. During this
scene, one of the employees explains what kind of job that he had to do
during his last employment:

I worked in a mini-market. It was really boring because I did not have to do

anything. I didn’t need to add up what people needed to pay because there
was already a computer, right? Customers can just grab the stuff they want.
My only entertainment was to listen to the sound of the printing machine.
(Servia et al., 2016, 01:35:42)

His description of working a boring job in the mini-market indicates the

lack of communal ambiance. As a self-service store, a mini-market does
not provide opportunities for employees to interact with customers the
way they usually do in Toko Jaya Baru.
The toko kelontong in CTS (2016) is constructed as a space in which
social interactions occur daily; it is a place where employees even associate
with employees from other stores. The budding relationship between
Kuncoro, the latest addition to Toko Jaya Baru, and Tini, the female
employee from Toko Makmur Abadi, is one of the many social interac-
tions portrayed in the film that emphasizes the role of stores as communal
spaces. Furthermore, the residents of the surrounding neighborhood also
play a significant role in making these spaces communal.
The bread seller, the female customer who puts her purchases on her
tab, and Pak Ali and his granddaughter, who pass by the store and interact
with Afuk, all actively construct the communal space. In his interaction
with Pak Ali, Afuk asks him when they will go fishing, implying a close
relationship between the two. From a multicultural perspective, Pak Ali’s
white kopiah is the signifier used to symbolize tolerance between a Chinese
Indonesian and a Moslem man of the neighborhood. As argued earlier in
this chapter, the urban regeneration of the city demolishes not only the
physical space of the store but more importantly the communal function
of the store. It radically restructures and sometimes obliterates the day-to-­
day lives of individuals and communities.
80 S. M. GIETTY TAMBUNAN AND M. R. WIDHIASTI

Conclusion
In conclusion, CTS’s (2016) representation of urban problematizes the
notion of urban regeneration as potentially eradicating urban spaces for
“others.” In this film, toko kelontong signifies what is deemed undesirable
and destroyed for the sake of development. Toko kelontong is also por-
trayed as a vehicle of tangible memory for the characters while being con-
structed as a communal space for the employees and the inhabitants of the
surrounding neighborhood. The findings of this research demonstrate
that films, as argued by Turner (1999), can represent and convey particu-
lar beliefs: “The ideology of a film does not take the form of direct state-
ments or reflections on the culture. It lies in the narrative structure and in
the discourses employed—the images, myths, conventions, and visual
styles” (p. 173). The conflicts among the characters and the film’s cinema-
tography create an ideological battleground between plans for progress
that embodies the notion of modernity and the values of family and social
relationships. In exploring the film’s narrative and visual imagery, research-
ers have problematized not only the findings in the text but also the ideo-
logical meanings conveyed by the film.
In an era in which urban regeneration has become an unstoppable force
exterminating or marginalizing communal spaces in cities, CTS re-­
evaluates how transforming some spaces can actually save them. As the
store is transformed into a photography studio and a bakery, which align
with Yohan and Ayu’s dreams, one might interpret that the toko kelontong
surrendered to the city’s plans for progress. However, the ending also
depicts how the two new spaces still maintain their function as communal
spaces for the employees and inhabitants of the city.
Collectivism in this case study also reflects how Chinese Indonesians, as
minorities, build collectivity out of their constant exclusion from the
mainstream, particularly during the New Order era. Moreover, the fact
that the couple maintained the space that carried the late mother’s mem-
ory is in itself an ideological portrayal of how urban regeneration does not
always destroy memory and the past. Family values and social kinship can
prevail in the midst of progress and through the active agency of the
inhabitants of the “other” spaces of cities. The inhabitants are the most
important factors in ensuring the continuing existence of these spaces.
We argue that the film conveys a conventional generation gap, between
a father and his two sons. However, although on the surface, urban
 5 URBAN REGENERATION AND IMAGES OF THE “OTHER” IN CEK TOKO… 81

regeneration is causing the disappearance of toko kelontong, the film’s end-

ing illustrates that the younger generation in Chinese Indonesians (in the
form of Ernest Prakasa as the writer and director) has merely renegotiated
the space. Without the physical store to evoke the memory of the late wife,
the characters create two new stores as new spaces to make new meaning
out of their family’s memory.
In total, the research presented in this chapter has problematized not
only how urban issues and their politics are represented in popular culture
literature but also how urban regeneration in Jakarta marginalizes “other”
spaces, such as toko kelontong. The commodification and commercializa-
tion of urban space have segregated urban settings. However, social bond-
ing and collectivism within these marginalized spaces have also produced
a degree of social capital that fosters social responsibility and promotes
resilience. Furthermore, these residents can evolve and negotiate strategi-
cally with the vigorous impacts of urban regeneration.

Acknowledgments This work was supported by the Universitas Indonesia’s

Research Grant (PITTA 2017) managed by DRPM UI (Grant Number:
NKB-492/UN2.R3.1/HKP.05.00/2017). It was copyedited by ENAGO.

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 PART II

Marginality and the Other Archives

 CHAPTER 6

Prostitution and Its Social Impact in Gang

Dolly, Surabaya (1967–1999)

Mala Hayati and Tri Wahyuning Mudaryanti

Introduction
Kuntowijoyo, in his book Pengantar Ilmu Sejarah, states that sex is a his-
torical force (1995, pp. 132–133) as its meaning changes from one his-
torical period to another in the history of modern Indonesia. The study of
sex has been abandoned and replaced with a gender concept that empha-
sizes the differences between men and women more from a sociocultural
understanding. The feminist movement in the Western world transformed
into a radical movement that resulted in the field of women’s studies, and
feminist criticism emerged in literature as well. Sex has become the driving
force behind the service industry; outside of the rural areas is an entire sex
industry of publishers, shops, theaters, and other types of businesses. In
Indonesia, sex as a business is both clandestine and out in the open. Even
priyayis (respected middle-class gentlemen) are customers of the packaged
sex business (Kuntowijoyo, 1995, p. 133).

M. Hayati • T. W. Mudaryanti (*)

Department of History, Faculty of Humanities, Universitas Indonesia,
Depok, Indonesia
e-mail: [email protected]; [email protected]

© The Author(s) 2025 87

M. Budiman, A. Kusno (eds.), Collective Memory, Marginality, and
Spatial Politics in Urban Indonesia.,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-97-4304-9_6
88 M. HAYATI AND T. W. MUDARYANTI

Prostitution cannot be seen as a cultural or moral problem because it

cannot be separated from social responsibility or economic and political
conditions. Prostitution in Indonesia is usually seen as the behavior of
women who either openly or secretly commit extra-marital sex in return
for money or other valuables (Soedjono, 1977, p. 14). Prostitution has
existed all throughout history and across geographies in Indonesia, such
as in plantation areas, coastal cities, and ports on the north coast of Java,
as well as in trade centers and military bases (Boomgard, 1989, p. 161).
Prostitution in Indonesia developed in accordance with the views of the
colonial Dutch government, which considered sexual services for its troops
a form of entertainment. This presumption led to the presence of prosti-
tutes in military barracks and in prisons to serve sexual needs and mitigate
tensions during the war (Truong, 1992, p. xxvii). However, the preva-
lence of venereal diseases became a countrywide challenge: On July 15,
1852, the Dutch East Indies government issued a regulation on prostitu-
tion known as Reglement tot wering van de schadelijke gevolgen, welke uit
de prostitutie voortvloejen (Rules for fighting the adverse effects of prosti-
tution) (Lembaran Sejarah, 2002, p. 26). Under rule 1852, female sex
workers had to register with the police, with the intent of suppressing
illegal prostitution. The rule then required registered prostitutes to see a
doctor every week, and any who tested positive for a venereal disease
would be admitted to the hospital until they were healthy again.
This chapter discusses the development of prostitution in the middle of
a residential area in the region of Putat Jaya, Surabaya. The existence of
prostitution in Indonesia, especially in Surabaya, can be documented to
the era of the Mataram Kingdom. The enormous power of the king was
considered to be infinite and agung binatara (divinely glorious)
(Moedjanto, 1986, p, 15). According to Hull et al. (1997, p. 2), the king
acquired concubines from, among other sources, noblemen who pre-
sented their daughters to kings as a sign of loyalty. Other concubines were
presented as gifts from other kingdoms, and some originated from lower-­
class families and were sold or surrendered to kings. The practice of having
royal concubines at the time did not completely represent the commercial-
ization of sex, but the practice demonstrated that women occupied a lower
societal position than men.
A more organized form of prostitution in Surabaya was instituted dur-
ing the Dutch occupation represented by practices including concubinage
(Regiee Bay, 2010, p. 1), which at that time became a solution to the few
women in the area. As a port city, Surabaya was a natural location for
 6 PROSTITUTION AND ITS SOCIAL IMPACT IN GANG DOLLY, SURABAYA… 89

prostitution. The port was considered strategic both as a base for the
Dutch Navy and as a transit post for regional traders. The practice of pros-
titution around the port of Tanjung Perak was described in a parikan, or
poem, that circulated in society in Surabaya: Tanjung Perak mas kapale
kobong, monggo pinarak mas kamare kosong (“the ship is on fire in Tanjung
Perak sir, please stop by, sir, the room is empty”). According to the head
of the Dutch Navy, the prostitution in Surabaya could be likened to that
in Yokohama, Japan.
During the Japanese occupation, the area of Kembang Jepun, north of
Surabaya and close to the port of Tanjung Perak, was the center for pros-
titution. Prostitutes came not only from Surabaya but also from Kediri,
Malang, Banyuwangi, and Sulawesi (Agustiningsih, 2011, p. 10). The
women who worked in this district were jukun ianfu (comfort women)
and women who became prostitutes of their own accord.
After Indonesian independence, prostitution in Surabaya grew in the
area surrounding the port and spread to other areas, such as cemeteries
(e.g., Kembang Kuning and the Cina Putat Jaya cemeteries). In 1967, a
procurer named Advonso Dollira Khavit used the Cina Putat Jaya ceme-
tery as a place of prostitution. It would later be known as “Dolly” and
become increasingly crowded and a magnet for new businesses in the sur-
rounding area. This resulted in a close relationship between the local area
and conditions of the surrounding community.

Surabaya and Its People

The name “Surabaya” was first mentioned in the Trowulan I inscription
dated 1358 CE. The inscription describes Surabaya as a village on the
banks of the Brantas River that functioned as a crossing place. The word
“Surabaya” was listed in the Negara Kertagama tome written by Mpu
Prapanca, which documented the voyage made by King Hayam Wuruk in
1365, specifically in Canto XVII (Pramudito, 2006, p. 54). The area bor-
ders the Madura Strait to the north and the villages of Jojoran, Ivory, and
Kedung Cowek as well as the Kenjeran Beach to the east. To the west, it
borders the villages of Getting, Kali Greges, Petemon, and Gresik, and to
the south, it borders Kali Wonokromo, Panjangjiwo, and Sidoarjo (Lamijo,
2006, p. 28). In 1830, Surabaya Residency was reorganized into several
districts: Bangkalan, Bawean, Madura, Pamekasan, Surabaya, and
Sumenep. In 1838 another reorganization took place to include Gresik
and Mojokerto (Indonesian National Archive, Staatsblad 30/1838).
90 M. HAYATI AND T. W. MUDARYANTI

During the Dutch occupation, Surabaya played an important role as

the place of the Gezaghebber in den Oosthoek (Policymaker of the East)
(Basundoro, 2013, p. 28). This situation affected Surabaya’s status, which
officially became a gemeente (municipality) under State Regulation No.
479 dated April 1, 1906 (Lamijo, 2006, p. 28). At the lowest structure of
the Gemeente was the Wijk, which was equivalent to a “quarter” or a
“negihborhood” (Basundoro, 2009). The status resulted in Surabaya
becoming an autonomous region that managed and funded its own city
affairs (Surdamawan & Basundoro, 2013). From that point on, Surabaya
grew rapidly and continued being influenced by the sugar import and
export activities carried out in the port of Tanjung Perak. Surabaya would
later become a city with one of the busiest ports in the Dutch East Indies.
The city’s increasingly rapid development attracted migrants to the
region. These immigrants came from the Netherlands, Britain, Denmark,
Germany, Italy, and Portugal (Basundoro, 2013, p. 3). In addition to
Europe, immigrants came from other Asian countries, such as China,
Japan, and Arab states. The bumiputera (natives) also migrated to Surabaya
from the area surrounding the gementee of Surabaya.
The community during the Dutch occupation was divided into differ-
ent social classes: The Europeans comprised the upper class followed by
the foreign Asians, and the lowest group was the indigenous people. This
community division not only influenced residential areas but also signifi-
cantly affected education, government, and available employment. Nearly
all government administration employees were Dutch, and a few low-level
administrative posts were sometimes held by indigenous people. In terms
of settlements, the Dutch and other Europeans lived in the more well-off
urban areas, whereas the Chinese, Arabs, and other eastern nationals were
concentrated in the eastern side of the Kali Mas (Lamijo, 2002, pp. 31–32).
The bumiputera and the foreign Asian community lived in poverty.
Purnawan Basundoro (2013) documents at least three causes of poverty in
Surabaya. The first was the ecological change following the physical devel-
opment and European settlements that took over the existing sugar plan-
tations; peasant laborers were evicted from their land and lost their sources
of living, thus creating unemployment (Basundoro, 2013, p. 102). The
second factor was the high rate of migration from different regions to
Surabaya; as soon as it became a municipality, it attracted people from the
region in search of better jobs. However, new arrivals did not come with
adequate skills to earn decent wages, and as a result, many of them also
ended up unemployed (Basundoro, 2013, p. 102). Finally, the third cause
 6 PROSTITUTION AND ITS SOCIAL IMPACT IN GANG DOLLY, SURABAYA… 91

was the low wages offered in Surabaya because wages correlated directly
with education level (Basundoro, 2013, p. 102). The people of Surabaya
who lived in poverty continued to survive until the Japanese occupation,
but most new immigrants were still uneducated and unskilled and thus
remained unemployed, which continued to support prostitution as alter-
native employment for bumiputera women in Surabaya. The practice of
prostitution continued even after independence.

Putat Jaya: Between Economics, Morality,

and the Constitution

Prostitution in Surabaya seemed to have entered a new phase when on

March 11, 1958, the government of Surabaya passed a law to close seven
Chinese cemeteries in Surabaya, ending their burial activities. Homeless
people started using the cemeteries for shelter (Basundoro, 2013, p. 240)
including the one in Putat Jaya. The prostitution activities in the former
cemetery had started in 1966. In 1967, a procurer named Advonso Dollira
Khavid, or “Dolly,” went to the former Chinese cemetery in Putat Jaya to
establish a place for prostitution and would then set up four brothels,
called Tentrem, Double Queen, Mama Mia, and Mama Rosa (Liberty,
July 16–31, 1991); three of the four brothels were rented to other people.
At first, Dolly’s brothels only served Dutch soldiers, but with time, the
number of customers increased enormously. Eventually, “Gang Dolly”
became well-known among the indigenous people and foreigners and an
economic center for the region (Firdaus, 2013).
The area known as Dolly was located in Kelurahan Putat Jaya,
Kecamatan Sawahan, Surabaya. There were two suburbs in this region,
Dolly, located on the Jalan Kupang Gunung Timur I and some parts of
Jalan Jarak, and the Jarak suburbs, which covered the rest of Jalan Jarak.
Both suburbs covered three RW (neighborhoods). Jarak suburbs covered
RW III, X, and XI, and Dolly covered RW VI, X, XIII. In addition to
brothels, there were cafés and massage parlors; every night, sex workers,
underage girls, pimps, and masseurs offered their services to visitors. The
business in Gang Dolly also supported street vendors, parking boys, bar
and karaoke workers, laundries, bouncers, cleaners, becak drivers, taxi driv-
ers, and food stall owners. Each was connected to the others in a symbiosis
that brought mutual profit to all of the actors.
92 M. HAYATI AND T. W. MUDARYANTI

Dolly developed rapidly between 1968 and 1969 (Purnomo & Siregar,
1985, p. 54), related to the raids on brothels in Surabaya such as in
Kembang Kuning, Wonokromo, and Tambak Rejo; owners of brothels
closed by the city of Surabaya began to move their businesses to Dolly.
Dolly’s development can be analyzed from two aspects: population growth
and the physical development of buildings in local businesses. Prostitution
grew in Dolly, attracting migrants to seek the local low-skilled jobs.
Dolly attracted sex workers to a thriving industry, which led to conflicts
among businesses, but this did not prevent Dolly from becoming more
vibrant and expanding. However, the sex workers operating in Dolly were
also aware that they were being trafficked; many could not leave until they
had repaid for all their rent, food, and daily necessities, and they were
never told the amounts or when their debt would be repaid. They were
not allowed to leave their boarding rooms without bodyguards so they
would not run away.
Frequent conflict did not deter Dolly residents from actively expanding
their sex businesses because Dolly had its own internal system created by
the actors; the city administrator and council were not entirely formal
themselves: The local police, military personnel, and district administra-
tors who were supposed to enforce the law were among the players who
helped Dolly survive as a prostitution center. Separately, because Dolly was
a common area for criminal activities such as gambling, drinking, and
fighting, heavy security was necessary, and services were provided by local
thugs, Civil Defense personnel, and soldiers (Purnomo & Siregar,
1985, p. 49).
The existence of cottage owners, managers, waiters, commercial sex
workers, and trafficking could only be sustained by the mutual depen-
dency between parties. Day by day, prostitution in Dolly grew and attracted
more people until there were dozens of brothels, 48 by 1981. The broth-
els, prostitutes, and procurers all had to expand to support the increasing
flows of customers from Surabaya and other cities in East Java.
The developments in Dolly also affected other businesses in the area
that provided nonsex services such as restaurants, cigarette stands, cellars,
tailors, laundry services, radio repair shops, karaoke places, shops for daily
needs, parking lots, and salons. In addition to being a place for prostitu-
tion, Dolly was also a place for community activities, such as mosques,
schools, and other education facilities such as the Qur’an Learning Park.
Although the government had never officially issued a permit for the
establishment of Dolly, it had no option but to accept the new community
 6 PROSTITUTION AND ITS SOCIAL IMPACT IN GANG DOLLY, SURABAYA… 93

because doing so confined prostitution to that area. The alternative would

have been thousands of prostitutes and pimps scattered throughout the
city. Nevertheless, the government helped maintain the well-being of the
region by providing health services up until the 1980s, with a paramedic
on duty for treatments along with administering weekly injections.
The government’s concern over health in Dolly intensified when in
1991, a prostitute tested positive for AIDS (Kompas, November 24,
1991). The city government cooperated with Surabaya’s Social Service
Department to conduct additional health screening in the Dolly area. In
addition, the Surabaya City Government, assisted by the Department of
Health and religious leaders, offered counseling services about HIV
and AIDS.
Many efforts were made to relocate Dolly, but these efforts often failed
because during the period 1967–1998, people who had certain interests in
the Dolly region disrupted the plans for change; plans would leak, and the
residents would really renounce the efforts. Finally, however, the Surabaya
City Government issued Regional Regulation No. 7 of 1999, prohibiting
the use of buildings within the city of Surabaya for immoral activities. The
regulation was issued because of the government’s concern that the reli-
gious and moral norms had been declining in the Surabaya region. The
government intended the regulation as a formal statement that prostitu-
tion was not condoned in Surabaya.
The existence of Dolly in the middle of the Putat Jaya residential area
also had some positive impacts on the surrounding community, such as
the development of a micro-economy in the region surrounding the sub-
urb. The first prostitution business pioneered by Dolly Khavit in Kelurahan
Putat Jaya, initially only benefited pimps and prostitutes. However, the
increasing number of brothels and visiting guests benefited residents rely-
ing on different types of livelihoods, which ultimately improved the levels
of education, welfare, and prosperity.
The increase in economic activity that Dolly had supported was evi-
denced by the increased population in Sawahan; residents from around
East Java traveled to this community looking for opportunities. According
to Surabaya’s Center for City Statistics (Badan Pusat Statistik Kota
Surabaya), the population of the Sawahan urban village was 149,400
inhabitants in 1970, 220,008 in 1984, and 199,780 in 1995.
The population of the Sawahan region declined again in the 1990s trig-
gered by several reasons, such as the HIV/AIDS epidemic suffered by
some prostitutes. Guests began to feel afraid to come to Dolly, the area
94 M. HAYATI AND T. W. MUDARYANTI

became deserted, and the economy grew sluggish. The plan proclaimed by
the E Commission of the City Council of Surabaya in 1992 also had a
major impact on the declining number of residents who came to Sawahan
Village.

The Lasting Impacts of Dolly

As noted earlier, although Dolly was a location of prostitution and the
crimes accompanying it, such as fighting and theft, the industry ended up
supporting a thriving community of service workers. In addition to the
restaurants, bars, and small stores the workers and customers needed, jobs
were created, such as parking attendants, food vendors, cigarette sellers,
barbers, grocery store owners, medicinal herb shop owners, tailors, car-
penters, mobile photographers, electronic technicians, laundry business
owners, mobile nail technicians, and coffee shop owners. One resident
from outside Putat Jaya reported moving to the Dolly specifically to build
a grocery store because he believed he would prosper, and restaurants did
well because prices were higher there than in other regions.
The Putat Jaya prostitution complex contained a mosque as well, and
the localization committee invited clerics to serve for the mosque’s first
activity. One of the routine activities was the Qur’an recitations for all of
the prostitutes in Putat Jaya. The activities took place every Thursday from
Ashr to Maghrib and ended with the Maghrib prayer together, at which
hour the sex services paused until the activity was completed (ba’da
maghrib). This shows that the people of Dolly still respected their religion
and associated values. The city has always struggled to move Dolly. Plans
to relocate since the 1980s have always been rejected by the public and
have thus failed.
Although Dolly had certain positive economic benefits, there were neg-
ative impacts on the community as well, particularly in terms of social
well-being and community health. However, despite the adverse effects on
children’s psychological development, parents feared becoming unem-
ployed if they left the area; some parents reported believing that their
children would be safe from the adverse impacts from the area if they were
properly educated about the dangers of the area.
Notably, not all parents thought the same. One of the pimps who
opened a brothel in Dolly admitted that he preferred for his child to live
in his hometown in Malang because the environment in Dolly made chil-
dren grow up too quickly. He revealed that many teenagers around the
 6 PROSTITUTION AND ITS SOCIAL IMPACT IN GANG DOLLY, SURABAYA… 95

brothel were caught peering at the prostitutes and clients, and he believed
children should not grow accustomed to seeing certain things. What he
saw made him feel sad, and he decided he did not want to bring his child
to live in a house with prostitutes. Finally, also as noted above, the advent
of the first AIDS case reported in Dolly in 1991, and subsequent cases,
chased visitors from the suburb out of fear, which ultimately reduced the
economic fortunes in the Putat Jaya region.

Conclusion
Prostitution in Java had been widespread long before the government
began regulating it in 1852. Prostitution in Surabaya flourished in the
middle of the nineteenth century, along with the expansion of Surabaya as
an important port city, a center of commerce and industry, a navy base,
and the site of the eastern terminus of the railway in Java. “Gang Dolly”
emerged and became quickly well-known as a center of economic activities
in Surabaya. This development had long-lasting moral, economic, psycho-
logical, sociocultural, and economic impacts on residents, some positive
and some negative.
In addition, the existence of a prostitution area in the middle of settle-
ments was deemed to be destructive to children’s psychological growth.
Young children living near the location were exposed to practices consid-
ered indecent, and there was fear that the children would be negatively
influenced by prostitution.
However, the impacts of prostitution in Dolly were not always nega-
tive, as evident from informal economic activities, such as the emergence
of various alternative career opportunities: parking attendants, grocery
store owners, laundry service owners, food vendors, and so on. This
resulted in an improvement in the level of well-being, prosperity, and stan-
dard of living around Dolly.
Dolly was eventually closed by the Surabaya City Government in 2014.
However, doing so did not eradicate prostitution in Surabaya. The prosti-
tutes moved to other parts of the city and opened new businesses for their
prostitution practices. A law clearly prohibiting prostitution in Indonesia
has never existed. However, in the case of prostitution in Putat Jaya, moral
messages were taught. In an attempt to be moral, Surabaya City’s govern-
ment planned to end Dolly’s prostitution, as the municipal government
deemed that prostitution must be immediately resolved.
96 M. HAYATI AND T. W. MUDARYANTI

Regulations implemented by the Surabaya municipal government have

been in accordance with their authority. Judicially and sociologically, the
existence of prostitution has created a negative reputation regarding the
region. Ongoing bureaucratic reformation is necessary to provide resi-
dents with the principles of good governance. However, the end of pros-
titution in Dolly Alley only created a new space of covert prostitution
elsewhere.

Acknowledgments It was copyedited by ENAGO.

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98 M. HAYATI AND T. W. MUDARYANTI

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 CHAPTER 7

Poverty, Criminality, and Prostitution:

Impacts of the Development of Batam
as an Industrial City (1971–1998)

Anita Ahmad and Didik Pradjoko

Introduction
Batam Island’s strategic location should have prompted a focus on maxi-
mizing its economic interests, as it is susceptible to being annexed by
other countries. However, at the beginning of his time in office, President
Soeharto focused on recovering the domestic (macro) economy and pre-
paring for reelection (Wulandari et al., 2009). Eventually, President
Soeharto realized how crucial Batam Island was for economically strength-
ening Indonesia’s sovereignty. In 1971, in a presidential decree, Batam
was declared an industrial area expected to compete with Singapore. The
decree was then reaffirmed in the Second Five-Year Development Plan
between 1974–1975 and 1978–1979, which declared that Batam would
be developed into a center of economic activity in an industrial area.

A. Ahmad • D. Pradjoko (*)

Department of History, Faculty of Humanities, Universitas Indonesia,
Depok, Indonesia
e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s) 2025 99

M. Budiman, A. Kusno (eds.), Collective Memory, Marginality, and
Spatial Politics in Urban Indonesia.,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-97-4304-9_7
100 A. AHMAD AND D. PRADJOKO

Implementing the development plan resulted in Batam becoming an

industrial city in the early 1980s.
Industrial cities in developing countries only began emerging in the
early to mid-twentieth century with the invention of technologies that
enabled the mass production of manufacturing goods (Nas, 1986). The
emergence of the industrial world was followed by a demand for workers,
which triggered high rates of urbanization (Hariyono, 2007). Most parts
of society are concentrated in the industrial and service sectors, as opposed
to the agricultural sector.
Batam, which has developed into an industrial city, continues to attract
migrant workers. With the population explosion in the early 1980s, Batam
City faced multiple labor issues and symptoms of social pathology, namely,
poverty, illegal settlements and slums, crime, and prostitution. In this
chapter, we are particularly interested in analyzing the sociology of Batam
City from a historical perspective. This research is deemed necessary
because most research on Batam has focused on the city’s macroeconomic
development. Few studies offer a comprehensive examination of the
impact of the city’s economic progress on its social structures during the
peak of its development. In addition, a case study on urban problems in
Batam would contribute to urban sociological research in Southeast Asia,
mainly in the form of the city’s historiography.
Cities should be viewed not only according to their morphological or
physical characteristics, as expressed by Amos Rapoport, but also according
to their specific functions, such as centers of economic activity, govern-
ment, and so on (qtd in Zahnd, 1999). Moreover, a city cannot be sepa-
rated from its residents’ interactions and behaviors (urban sociology).
Mere observation of the city’s current situation is insufficient in conduct-
ing urban research. One must understand that a city is not formed over-
night; its development is a process that needs to be fully understood so that
urban problems can be seen as a part of that process (Hariyono, 2007).
Therefore, the history of a city can be considered a worthy topic on its own.
Based on historical research, the borders of a city are not bound by
administrative provisions but evolve with the city itself (Kuntowijoyo,
1994). Administratively speaking, Batam is separated from Singapore and
situated in another territory. However, from an economic perspective, it is
part of Singaporean territory. The fast-growing development of Batam in
the economic sector is driven by the advancement of Singapore, which is
famous for having one of the busiest seaports in the world. Singapore’s
economy advanced with the rapid growth of its industrial sector in the
 7 POVERTY, CRIMINALITY, AND PROSTITUTION: IMPACTS… 101

1960s (Asian Development Bank, 1971), and the Port of Singapore has
been a center for container shipping in Southeast Asia since 1972
(Turnbull, 1977). The economy of Singapore then began to play a big
role in the service sector (tourism) in the 1980s (Brown, 1997). The
country’s economic progress, particularly with regard to industry, has
influenced Batam’s development into an industrial city.
Studying the economic development in Batam requires understanding
the correlation between the economic development and the ecological
and sociological changes in the region. Therefore, a case study of the soci-
ological development in Batam from a historical perspective can be pre-
sented comprehensively given that these aspects together form a dependent
system (Kartodirdjo, 1993). According to Lindquist (2010), during the
course of Indonesia’s financial crisis between 1997 and 1999, when the
exchange rate from IDR to USD and SGD dropped drastically, the econ-
omy in Batam was booming. The dynamics of Batam’s economy, which
was based on illegal drug dealing and prostitution, became the determin-
ing factor of its economic development. The city’s success was an anomaly
during Indonesia’s worst monetary crisis (Lindquist, 2010, p. 280).
Studies show that poverty, criminality, and prostitution increased as a
result of Batam’s development, and law enforcement did not attempt to
address the new challenges. According to Wertheim (1987), the New
Order regime’s city development plan was only good on paper but pro-
vided no actual mechanisms for supporting marginalized urban residents,
especially those living below the poverty line, whether with education,
housing, employment, or public safety; the government even failed to
intervene when they became victims of police raids. Batam’s attempts to
use migrants to expand the population had the opposite effects of the
government’s expectations. The migrants were not fully absorbed into any
of the city’s formal sectors. Instead, they were trapped in crime and pros-
titution (Wertheim, 1987, p. 542).

Impacts of the Development of Batam

as an Industrial City from 1971 to 1998: Illegal
Settlements and Slums
Batam City’s urbanization was not offset by the provision of education
and skills training for work-seeking migrants, which created a problem
known as social disease or urban social pathology (Simanjuntak, 1981).
These symptoms of social imbalance (Daldjoeni, 1992) drove the
102 A. AHMAD AND D. PRADJOKO

relentless urban social pathology of poverty that took forms such as home-
lessness, criminality, and prostitution (Kartono, 2001). The result was the
development of slum areas.
Illegal housing construction and slums were widespread in Indonesian
cities, not just in Batam, because of the high price of land in cities and the
growing emergence of land speculators (Tempo, 1993, January 2). In
Batam, it was difficult to buy land without the permission of the Batam
Authority, especially when the land was to be developed into an industrial
area. The growing population of Batam City also increased the demand
for housing.
The si Ruli in Batam (“wild house”) emerged in 1990, and by 1995,
dozens of illegal settlements had increased to tens of thousands. Building
an illegal settlement became a shortcut to owning a home: M. S. Simbolon
from Batu Aji told a reporter that it cost much less to build an illegal set-
tlement, whereas a typical home would cost a fortune. From a quite differ-
ent perspective, Safaruddin told the reporter that he had built his illegal
settlement in Baloi Center because it was close to where he worked
(Kompas, 1997, February 15).
However, illegal settlements have serious negative impacts on the eco-
logical balance in the city and on city residents. In addition to being built
in areas prone to flooding and landslide, these areas feature no facilities for
maintaining hygiene, and disease spreads easily (Kompas, 1993, May 15).
The Health Office of Batam Municipality reported in 1998 that the num-
ber of malaria patient visits to hospitals had increased to 2812 from
2657 in 1990, coinciding with the proliferation of slum areas in the city.
By 1994, there were around 12,000 houses in 59 slum areas around
Batam City that had begun to threaten the flow of freshwater into the
reservoir, the city’s source of drinking water. In addition to polluting the
water, the slum areas also raised the sedimentation levels, which caused
flooding and damage to the surrounding environment. In addition, slums
were being built in protected forests, which violated the Basic Framework
of City Spatial Planning Batam Island industrial area (Kompas, 1994,
March 31). These issues were considered destructive to city development
planning and stretched urban services beyond the control of the govern-
ment (Marbun, 1979).
In 1994, the population of Batam Island was recorded as over 121,000
people, 40% of whom lived in illegal settlements and slums. According to
the Head of Executive Officials of Batam Authority, Surjohadi Djatmiko,
the inhabitants of the slums and illegal settlements were of various
 7 POVERTY, CRIMINALITY, AND PROSTITUTION: IMPACTS… 103

backgrounds and employment profiles. Though many were unemployed,

many worked in informal sectors or as civil servants and members of
ABRI/Indonesian National Force (Kompas, 1994, March 31). The Batam
Authority and the regional government made multiple efforts to over-
come the destructive impacts of the illegal settlements and slums.
First, the Batam Authority has been curbing illegal settlements by
demolishing them for the last two decades. They demolished the first 40
settlements in Bengkong Mahkota (Batu Ampar) on January 8, 1994. The
action prompted unrest during the demolition when a political activist and
a community leader resisted the officers and encouraged those around
them to do the same.
Second, Batam Authority attempted to entice the slumdwellers to the
government’s low-cost housing, locally known as Rumah Sangat
Sederhana (RSS). Batam Authority had allocated a residential land area of
3480 hectares, 80% of which had been handed over to developers who
were members of Real-Estate Indonesia, and offered settlement residents
a 50% discount to help them afford an RSS home. However, by 1994,
only 8904 houses (118 ha) had been built, whereas the projected count
for 1993 was 25,941 units. Third, the local government transported
migrants back to their hometowns if they could not afford RSS (Kompas,
1997, February 15).
These efforts by the government and Batam Authority did not, how-
ever, decrease the number of illegal settlements and slums. For instance,
the Deputy Chairman of Riau Local Government, Dr. Roedi Ilyas, and
Mayor Ir. H. Raja Usman Draman reported, “Since 1980, 3,000 heads of
family have been resettled, and 300 migrants have been returned to their
hometowns, but this was not a significant result since it was just a tempo-
rary problem-solving measure” (Kompas, 1988, November 2). Specifically,
Surjohadi, the Head of Executive Officials of Batam Authority, told a
reporter, “The developers did not build enough low-cost houses affordable
to the low-income society. A simple house (type-21), which costs IDR 7
million in Jakarta, is sold for IDR 15–20 million” (Suara Karya, 1995,
January 21).
That is, the developers built homes that were too expensive even for
middle-income employees. Those who had to buy were forced to buy on
credit by borrowing money from their employer to pay the down pay-
ment. Residents of the illegal settlements also saw this RSS ownership
program as an unlikely solution because there were too few houses to
104 A. AHMAD AND D. PRADJOKO

accommodate everyone and those houses that had been built were too far
from their places of work (Kompas, 1995, November 24).

Crime
The next element of social pathology that manifested in the city of Batam
was crime. Crimes such as theft, murder, robbery, smuggling, mugging,
and rape marred the successful development of the industrial city. As of
1986, Batam’s statistical data showed that around 90% of the city’s crimes
were categorized as theft or assault.
In the first high-profile crime in Batam City since its evolution into an
industrial city, a Singaporean tourist was violently mugged in July 1987,
and his injuries resulted in his death after he had returned to Singapore. In
response to this incident, in September 1987, Batam security officials
engaged the Military District Command to conduct raids and round up
any thugs and any individuals with no ID cards. Under instructions from
the government, the local military garrison conducted a mass arrest of
supposed thugs who were suspected of crime. They arrested some 300
Batam residents, shaved their heads, and deported them to Galang Island.
Then, in July 1991, a robbery and murder were committed at Bank
Dagang Negara, Nagoya (Kompas, 1992, November 5), and in January
1995, a Taiwanese tourist named Lim Siu Lung was found dead in a hotel
room where he had gone after several armed robbers had entered his
shophouse and beaten him. In between those two crimes, a Singaporean
citizen named Shua Seow Sam who had opened a money exchange busi-
ness in Batam was also murdered (Suara Karya, 1995, January 21). Many
of the violent crimes that took place in Batam had robbery as the motive
and targeted victims who were seen as both wealthy and easy targets.
In addition to murder and robbery, piracy and smuggling became a
common crime in the Strait of Philips and Singapore. During an operation
in August 1991, 75% of captured perpetrators were migrants from the
island of Mat, behind Padang, Sambu Island, and Tanjung Uban around
Batam (Kompas, 1992, November 5). These crimes were caused by the
slow development of infrastructure, such as security apparatuses, especially
the Riau water police force. Batam City only owns 15 patrol boats, 13 of
which are wooden patrol boats that max out at 8 miles per hour.
Therefore, it can be argued that this growing crime is the result of dys-
functional societal structure. The progress of Batam impacted the criminal
activity in the area around Batam, especially Riau. For instance, Batam’s
 7 POVERTY, CRIMINALITY, AND PROSTITUTION: IMPACTS… 105

geographic position and the high costs of goods associated with its rapid
economic development stimulated the smuggling of goods into Riau from
Singapore for transport to North Sumatra, West Sumatra, and Java
(Kompas, 1991, September 14).
B. J. Habibie developed the concept of the balloon theory in March
1979, when he was the chairman of the Batam Authority Board, during a
meeting with Singaporean Prime Minister Lee Kuan Yew. The theory
refers to Batam’s development as a string of balloons connected with
valves such that if pressure on one balloon threatens its explosion, the
pressure is channeled to the next balloon in the chain until the pressure
reduces. The expectation was that Batam would develop by accommodat-
ing the overflow of economic activity from Singapore, and the govern-
ment efforts succeeded so well that much investment, trade, and tourism
activity moved from Singapore to Batam.
However, in addition to booming economic activity, Singapore sent a
wave of crime to Batam, reflected in the Bank Dagang Negara robbery of
July 1991 in Nagoya and in cases of narcotics smuggling in 1992. In the
first case of narcotics smuggling, a gang of criminals led by Singaporean
citizen Peter Ong killed a bank guard assisted by a former cashier of Bank
Dagang Negara (Kompas, 1991, September 14). The second case of nar-
cotics smuggling involved a shop in Taman Indah area, Nagoya. The
police managed to capture the owners, Kolant Ko Chuon Kwang, Goh
Juan Kwang, and Tong Sen Kim, and all were citizens of Singapore. In
other cases, smugglers swallowed condoms filled with heroin to cross the
border undetected (Suara Karya, 1995, January 21).
The rise in criminal activity in Batam was triggered by a number of fac-
tors. First, as we noted earlier, the rapid urbanization caused by migration
was not accompanied with any support services for the new migrants, and
they were ultimately marginalized from any of the city’s formal service,
employment, or other sectors. Although there are no accurate official data
on unemployment and homelessness in Batam, it is assumed that they
increased each year (Suara Karya, 1995, January 21). Even high-school
graduates such as Soekanto of Pariaman from West Sumatra found them-
selves without work:

Soekanto (35) … admitted that before coming to Batam, what he had in

mind was there had to be so many job opportunities in this city for people
like him who graduated from high school … Once he arrived in Batam, it
turned out that he did not see what he had imagined before. “I was even
106 A. AHMAD AND D. PRADJOKO

unemployed for almost one and a half years and I almost starved to death.” …
In that critical moment, he unexpectedly met an old friend whom he met
when travelling in Pekanbaru … Thanks to his friend’s help, Iskandar, he
trained to drive a taxi; then he became a taxi driver… (Suara Karya, 1995,
January 21, authors’ translation).

Second, industries in Batam imposed a strict contractual system, and when

workers’ contracts expired, they were immediately unemployed until they
received new contracts; this cycle drove crime in between contracts
(Kompas, 1992, November 5). The third factor in the high crime rates in
Batam was the high cost of living. Even civil servants found it difficult to
live in a city so close to Singapore, let alone those who had even lower
incomes or were unemployed. Residents told reporters,

people outside Batam would not believe it if they were told how much
money they spent every month… This high cost of living is because the
price of groceries sold in Batam is much more expensive than that of other
areas… Saragih (40), a teacher at a junior high school in Batam, said that he
earned a monthly salary of IDR 250 thousand; it would be difficult for him
to fulfill his family’s basic needs… forced to be able to find additional income
by working elsewhere outside of teaching hours. After teaching, he worked
as a taxi driver until late at night. (Suara Karya, 1995, January 21)

Prostitution and Drugs

In addition to Pontianak, Mataram (Lombok), Medan, and Denpasar,
Batam became a main destination for child trafficking, specifically young
girls destined for sex work. Batam became a primary destination in par-
ticular for those coming from Sumatera Utara; it was considered a strate-
gic location because it was near Singapore and Johor, Malaysia
(Perangin-Rangin, 2009), and Batam was also strategic because of its
small ports (Utami, 2017).
Sex workers from outside Indonesia were also transported to Batam,
mainly from Singapore, Hong Kong, the Philippines, and Thailand. The
wide prevalence of prostitution in Batam was driven by the high demand
from Singaporean tourists: Batam prostitutes were known to be much
cheaper than those in Singapore, and Singapore imposed stringent restric-
tions on prostitution (Hull et al., 1997, p. 93).
Meanwhile, prostitution in Batam City had mushroomed in the first
place as one impact of the expansion of the tourism industry. Travel from
 7 POVERTY, CRIMINALITY, AND PROSTITUTION: IMPACTS… 107

Singapore was inexpensive, and as we noted above, prostitution was inex-

pensive as well (e.g., 50 SGD in Batam versus 200 SGD in Singapore).
The prostitutes were between 16 and 25 years old and worked on three-­
month contracts managed by a pimp known locally as “Mommy.” They
operated from 11 am to 4 pm and continuing from 7 pm until past mid-
night (Tempo, 1993, January 2). After they completed their three-month
contract, they could return to their hometowns with their earnings, which
amounted to about IDR 3–5 million (Kompas, 1992, November 5).
Prostitution in Batam operated rather differently from the practices in
other cities in Indonesia. For instance, their contracts did not prohibit
the prostitutes to travel in groups to Singapore (Tempo, 1993, November
13). Ela, who had been working for four years, spent SGD 35 to travel
to Singapore during the low season to find new customers, although she
was arrested twice and deported to Batam along with 25 other prosti-
tutes. Singapore was a promising city to meet low-income customers
such as taxi drivers, satay sellers, and construction workers (Tempo, 1993,
November 13).
Prostitutes interested in relocating to Batam could apply through local
brokers in their areas. Many women had been promised work as factory
workers or housemaids but had found that they had been lied to; instead,
of those jobs, the women had been forced into prostitution. However,
some had been explicitly told that they would be working as prostitutes in
Batam. Brokers could earn IDR 300,000 per recruit (Tempo, 1993,
November 13). Several women had been prostitutes in their hometowns
and had come to Batam for higher pay, such as prostitutes from Medan
and of Chinese descent from West Kalimantan (Tempo, 1993, November
13). The prostitutes from Hong Kong, Singapore, the Philippines, and
Thailand were considered high class (Kompas, 1986, March 14).
Lindquist (2010) conducted an extensive field study between 1998 and
1999 of the economic pillars of Batam and found that the economy mainly
relied on the money circulating around nightclubs, pubs, karaoke bars,
hotels, and gambling establishments, all of which attracted increasing
numbers of tourists from Singapore: from 60,000 in 1985 to 580,000 in
the 1990s. Most were male weekend visitors looking for prostitutes and
drugs such as ecstasy and marijuana, which could be easily obtained in the
nightclubs, and Lindquist referred to Batam drug trading as “the Economy
of the Night.” Lindquist also found that law enforcement tended to toler-
ate drug dealing at nightclubs and, interestingly, that tourists and sex
108 A. AHMAD AND D. PRADJOKO

workers were customers; female sex workers in Batam could earn USD 30
per day from their customers (Lindquist, 2010, pp. 281–282, 286), and in
addition to the entertainment industry, prostitution became a lucrative
profession following the Indonesian financial crisis of 1997.
With the surge in prostitution, however, the prevalence of sexually
transmitted diseases became a risk to the city. Based on data from the
Health Office of Batam Municipality, the number of visits from patients
with sexually transmitted diseases to Batam Hospital increased from 546 in
1990 to 1059 in 1995, which aligned with the numbers of prostitutes in
the city. For example, some 73 prostitutes were recorded working in
Batam in 1983, and 1107 prostitutes were working in 1995. B.J. Habibie
observed this to be a consequence of economic development in Batam,
(Suara Pembaharuan, 1998, September 1).
The spread of nightlife in Batam as part of its rapid economic progress
supported ample adult entertainment such as massage parlors and night-
clubs (Tempo, 1993, November 13), and many owners granted prostitutes
permission to operate in their businesses. Other venues openly provided
their customers with prostitutes. For instance, the nightclubs Golden
Million and Golden Star had 300 women available, and there were 40 at
Maxim Bar (Tempo, 1993, November 13). Nightclub owners offered
erotic dancers in addition to female escorts in efforts to be competitive.
The dancers were mostly from Singapore and Malaysia (Suara Karya,
1995, January 21). Despite awareness of the problem and its impacts,
authorities in Batam struggled to prosecute owners of these establish-
ments because local security officers protected the clubs (Suara Karya,
1995, January 21). Such conditions perpetuated prostitution in the city
of Batam.
Besides operating at night clubs, prostitutes in Batam operated in a red-­
light district in Bukit called “Samyong,” better known as Bukit Girang,
which literally means Happy Hill (Tempo, 1993, November 13).
Prostitution in Bukit Girang was classified as registered because it was
monitored by authorities such as the police and assisted by social and
health institutions (Kartono, 2001). Bukit Girang was a complex of slums.
In 1988, 243 prostitutes were recorded as working in Bukit Girang, which
did not include those working in the 13 massage parlors (Kompas, 1988,
November 2). In 1993, the number of prostitutes in Bukit Girang
increased to 348 (Tempo, 1993, November 13).
 7 POVERTY, CRIMINALITY, AND PROSTITUTION: IMPACTS… 109

Additionally, apart from jeopardizing the health of the population, the

increasing prostitution in Batam deteriorated societal morals (Kartono,
2001) and contributed to a negative image of the city. Young people in the
city became accustomed to hanging out at nightclubs in the evening and
were introduced to the world of prostitution at early ages (Suara Karya,
1995, January 21).

Conclusion
Batam’s development as an industrial city and the associated advances had
negative impacts on the city. The city’s rapid urbanization—fueled by
rural, unskilled, uneducated migrants—introduced illegal settlements and
slums; high poverty, unemployment, and crime; poor public health; and
physical and environmental damage. Industrial and commercial activities
mushroomed around the city, but an underworld ballooned in growth
as well.
The areas of marginalized migrants contained massage parlors and
nightclubs where drugs were sold and women danced erotically.
Prostitution thrived, and violent robberies for money became common.
The Batam Authority attempted to mitigate the harms this population was
causing by razing illegal settlements and transporting migrants back to
their home villages but also by attempting to lure them to stable
government-­built homes that were unaffordable even with the assistance.
Apart from the citywide impacts of the communities of marginalized resi-
dents building their own slums, Batam is located at the borders with Riau,
Johor, and Singapore, and it has become a hub of child sex trafficking.
The many unintended negative consequences of Batam’s rapid urbaniza-
tion make the city a highly effective case study of the challenges of attempt-
ing to modernize cities, and this study highlights areas for effective city
management and urban planning to address before launching pushes to
expand a city through migration.

Acknowledgments This work was copyedited by ENAGO.

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 CHAPTER 8

Pondok Indah and Pondok Pinang

from 1973 to 1997: Developing Through
Interdependency

Isti Sri Ulfiarti, Tri Wahyuning Mudaryanti,

and R. Tuty Nur Mutia Enoch Muas

Introduction
In 1977, Australian historian Lea Jellinek published a study on residences
in Jakarta known as pondok (“cottage”). Pondok were temporary resi-
dences rented out by tauke, their owners; they were rented to migrant
traders, and the tauke also owned the tools the traders used when they
lodge there. The pondok is typically six square meters and usually accom-
modates 10–40 people, albeit quite tightly. When Jakarta adopted the
policy of being a closed city, initiated by Ali Sadikin, pondoks were widely
built to accommodate the rapid urbanization of the city.

I. S. Ulfiarti • T. W. Mudaryanti • R. Tuty Nur Mutia Enoch Muas (*)

Department of History, Faculty of Humanities, Universitas Indonesia,
Depok, Indonesia
e-mail: [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]

© The Author(s) 2025 113

M. Budiman, A. Kusno (eds.), Collective Memory, Marginality, and
Spatial Politics in Urban Indonesia.,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-97-4304-9_8
114 I. S. ULFIARTI ET AL.

In 1973, in South Jakarta, more than 460 hectares of new housing was
built to address the shortage of homes. These suburbs were known as
Pondok Indah (“beautiful”), and they were beautiful in design and in the
public facilities available to their residents. However, given that the devel-
opment of this suburb was targeted at the upper middle class, the quality
of materials, building area, and land area was much better than what the
government had used to build homes for the lower middle class. That is,
pondok can be simple or luxurious (Tempo, 1976, March 13, p. 51).
The residential area of Pondok Indah is in the subdistrict of Pondok
Pinang, Kebayoran Lama District, South Jakarta. Pondok Pinang was at
one time a kampong with people who worked as farmers, carpenters, or
furniture traders, and access to the area was limited. The closest main road
was Jalan Raya Ciputat, and in 1975, the area had still not been equipped
with electricity; lighting at the time depended on kerosene lamps or the
insignificant amounts of electricity the locals could generate. Projected to
be an elite area in Jakarta, Pondok Indah brought social and economic
influences on the local community.
Here, we discuss the impacts on the urban spaces in Pondok Pinang of
the Pondok Indah suburbs, which were constructed over agricultural
lands, in terms of the environment and the surrounding communities.
Discussions on developing Pondok Indah began in 1973 in cooperation
between real estate companies and the local government, and 1997
marked the end of the agreement between the Jakarta city government
and the developer of Pondok Indah, PT Metropolitan Kencana.
Many scholars have discussed the construction of Pondok Indah,
including Blackburn (2011), Sutedi (2007), Soerjani (1981), and
Budihardjo (1998), and these studies were similar to Warnamaker’s (2008)
on settling the elite in Beverly Hills, California, USA. However, these
researchers only addressed the issue of the land acquisition for the con-
struction, with little mention of the impact of the built settlement. In this
essay, we offer more comprehensive research on the subject. We focus on
when changes occurred to the region and their impacts on both the spaces
and the socioeconomic conditions of local communities, particularly the
people of Pondok Pinang.
We reviewed literature from a range of sources, including books, maga-
zines, newspapers, journals, and other printed sources such as maps, and
we also interviewed residents of the Pondok Pinang and Pondok Indah
communities who had been living in the area at the beginning of the area’s
construction. We conducted these interviews in 2017 with the following
 8 PONDOK INDAH AND PONDOK PINANG FROM 1973 TO 1997… 115

subjects: Haji Abu Bakar, Idris, Revianti, Machruf, and Joannesa; Abu
Bakar, Idris, and Machruf used to live in the area now called Pondok
Indah, and Revianti and Joanessa were among the first to move into the
new development.

Master Planning of Pondok Indah

The government developed Pondok Indah according to Jakarta Master Plan
1965–1985. In the Master Plan, the city was divided into areas designated as
settlements, and one of the planned areas for settlements was South Jakarta,
divided into the Central Development Area (Wilayah Pengembangan-Pusat/
WP-P), the Southern Development Area (WP-Selatan/WP-S), and the
Western Development Area (WP-Barat/WP-B).
First, WP-P covered the Tebet, Setiabudi, Mampang Prapatan, and
Kebayoran Baru subdistricts and some of Cilandak and Pasar Minggu,
covering a total area of approximately 5.711 hectares. The population
density in this region was 167 persons/ha, which drove the government
to restrict every type of construction (industry, trade, services, and offices).
Second, WP-S covered part of the Pasar Minggu and Cilandak subdis-
tricts, encompassing 12 urban villages with an area of 5.233 hectares and
an average population density of 45 persons/ha; WP-S was in a water
catchment area and was planned as a green open space. Third, WP-B cov-
ered the Kebayoran Lama subdistrict, with 10 urban villages covering
3.676 hectares and an average population density of 76 persons/ha. This
area in the medium- to long-term plan was to be developed as a city, as its
soil conditions, water, and altitude were suitable for development.
However, until the 1980s, the infrastructure and public facilities in this
area were insufficient (BPS Jakarta Selatan, 1986).
In South Jakarta, settlements such as Kebayoran Baru (built in 1948)
had been planned during the administration of President Soekarno.
Developing Kebayoran Baru was intended to overcome the housing short-
age for civil servants who had moved from Yogyakarta to Jakarta as a result
of the unification of RIS and RI in 1950 (Dinas Museum dan Pemugaran
Prov. DKI Jakarta, 2000). High levels of urbanization drove economic
and sociocultural challenges such as housing shortages.
Jakarta’s Governor Ali Sadikin proposed overcoming the issue by build-
ing national housing (Perumnas) for lower- to middle-class residents and
encouraging the private real estate sector to build for the upper middle
class, although even before real estate had come to flourish in Jakarta, the
116 I. S. ULFIARTI ET AL.

government had already deployed authoritative bodies to explore rejuve-

nating urban activity centers and developing new areas. One such agency
was the Executing Agency of the Authority of Pondok Pinang, approved
by the Decree of Governor No. Da 11/19/6/1972 dated June 14, 1972,
on Pembentukan Badan Pelaksana Otorita Pondok Pinang (BPOPP).
BPOPP worked with real estate businesses to build Pondok Indah,
located in the Pondok Pinang area. The intention was for upper middle-­
class residents and foreigners living in Singapore to move their families to
these new luxurious suburbs in Jakarta (Nicholas & Wu, 2011). Here, we
discuss the many social and economic impacts of the development on the
community around Pondok Pinang.
Pondok Pinang was developed in an agreement between the Jakarta
regional government and PT Metropolitan Kentjana, the developer. The
agreement was promulgated on September 17, 1973, and was valid until
February 13, 1997, with Commissioner Liem Soei Liong and
Soedwikatmono as Managing Director (Sutedi, 2007, p. 301). Under the
agreement, the government provided permits and land clearing, the real
estate firms provided funds for the project (Dieleman, 2011), and Jakarta
was to be transformed into a metropolis with modern, world-class facilities.

From Pondok Pinang to Pondok Indah

There are several historical versions of the naming of Pondok Pinang.
Prior to Jellinek (1977), Mr. R. M. Soemanang in 1940 had coined an
approximately similar meaning of the word “Pondok.” In the stories passed
down by elders, betel nut (pinang) gatherers usually brought their goods
to the center of Batavia, but sometimes, rains badly damaged the road.
When they could not pass, the betel nut gatherers built temporary lodges
that were later referred to as pondok, and because most people who stayed
there were pinang gatherers, the area became Pondok Pinang, a village for
traders traveling inland (Soemanang, 1940, p. 6).
Pondok Pinang is in an area occupied by a community of Betawi people
whose livelihoods rely on agriculture and wood crafts. The original area
was a lowland plain with fruit trees, rubber plantations, rice fields, and
swamps, and several factors contributed to its choice for the new elite sub-
urb including primarily its strategic location not far from Jakarta’s city
center; the area was also 12 meters above sea level and thus protected from
flooding (Soemanang, 1940). The areas selected for Pondok Pinang was
also beautiful, and because it was a suburb of Jakarta, the land was
 8 PONDOK INDAH AND PONDOK PINANG FROM 1973 TO 1997… 117

reasonably priced, for instance, ranging from IDR 1000 to IDR 4000 for
land in 1976 compared with IDR 27,000 to IDR 90,000 around down-
town Jakarta (Tempo, 1976, March 13, p. 51).
In 1974, the agrarian subdirectorate of Jakarta granted compensation
to the people of Pondok Pinang who would be displaced by the construc-
tion of the Pondok Indah suburb, although only for their buildings and
land (Kompas, 1977, 12 September, p. 4.) and not their bulldozed crops
(trees; Prisma, March 1977, p. 49). Compensation for permanent build-
ings with brick walls (rumah tembok), floor tiles/flooring, and roof tiles
was set at IDR 12,000/m2. A semi-permanent building received compen-
sation of IDR 9000/m2, and a bamboo wall house (rumah bilik) received
compensation of IDR 3500/m2, as well as the land, which was compen-
sated at IDR 2400/m2.
Only a few villages were co-opted so Pondok Indah could be con-
structed: Kampung Pondok Pinang Timur, Gebruk Tengah, Gebruk
Timur, Kampung Terogong Besar, and Terogong Belakang (Soerjani,
1981, p. 25). Some 1250 families were displaced, approximately 6250
people (Kompas, 1977, June 25, p. 9). Land was acquired in one of two
ways: buying and selling (geblok) or by trading (tukar guling).

(a) Buying and selling land

Under the geblok system, the BPOPP bought individuals’ land.
The government did not relocate them; rather, many bought land
in the village of Pondok Pinang or nearby such as in Parung, Tanah
Ara, or the Ciputat area (Soerjani, 1981, pp. 25–26).
(b) Trading land
Under tukar guling, the government exchanged land for land,
with the amount of replacement land adjusted according to the
amount of land being traded; if the owner’s property was larger
than the plot for trade, the government paid the difference. The
payment for each plot of land was calculated based on a per-meter
cost for building a new home. Nearly all Pondok Pinang communi-
ties affected by the acquisition accepted land from the authorities
in the Haji Muhi area, located in Pondok Pinang Barat. There, the
government provided about 40 hectares and some shelters for the
new residents who were building houses (Kompas, 1977, March
22. p. 3).
118 I. S. ULFIARTI ET AL.

In 1977, Pondok Indah covered almost 448 hectares of Pondok Pinang

urban village, which was 660 hectares, that is, 68%. The new develop-
ment’s boundaries were nearly the same as those of Pondok Pinang vil-
lage: the north was bordered by Sodetan, the east was bordered by Grogol,
and the west was bordered by Pesanggrahan, but the south was bordered
by the planned toll road to Cengkareng. Of the 448 hectares of the proj-
ect, 239 were allocated to 3500 plots for housing, with lots ranging from
200 m2 to 1000 m2. The suburb was planned to accommodate
15,000–20,000 people (Kompas, 1977, September 12, p. 4). Until 1991,
the area built for the Pondok Indah suburbs was limited to the eastern
region of the Ciputat highway.
It is estimated that 30,000 people resided in Pondok Indah by 1997
(Eksekutif, 1997, November 21, p. 65) in populations that changed the
community composition of Pondok Pinang. Initially, there were only
Indonesians, but the elite housing development attracted foreign invest-
ment in the area, including from the United States, Argentina, Germany,
and Japan. The composition of Indonesian citizens also changed: rather
than being mostly Betawi, the new population included a variety of upper
middle-class Indonesians in addition to the foreigners.
The Pondok Indah suburbs were inhabited by businessmen, artists,
athletes, and state officials, including the head of the Center for Data and
Mapping Management, the Director of Education and Culture (Alda,
1995), and the former Siliwangi Commander, Ibrahim Adjie (Tempo,
1987, p. 78). Among the businessmen were Ir. Ciputra, Soedwikatmono
group leader of Pondok Indah; artists included Lidya Kandau and Venna
Melinda (Kompas, 1994, May 15, p. 18); and one athlete was Christian
Hadinata, a badminton player (Tempo, 1984, May 26, p. 68).
Most foreigners lived in the Tarogong area because there was a Joint
Embassy School, renting large houses along the main road of Metro
Pondok Indah because the 1960 Agrarian Basic Law prohibited foreigners
from buying land. Diplomats and foreign embassy staff also lived in the
area. Prospective residents of the Bukit Golf plot required at least IDR 2.5
billion to purchase land, as 2000 m2 cost between IDR 850,000 and IDR
1.2 million (Tempo, 1991, June 22, p. 32).
Homeowners in Pondok Indah built their houses according to their
own individual designs. For instance, Ir. Ciputra had his home on a Bukit
Golf plot built in an American country style, whereas others built
Mediterranean-style houses with high pillars to the second floor; some
chose minimalist homes with fences. The houses were built observing
 8 PONDOK INDAH AND PONDOK PINANG FROM 1973 TO 1997… 119

Marcus Vitruvius Pollio’s three architectural elements: convenience,

strength, and beauty (Soekiman, 2000, p. 241). The presence of middle-
to upper-class and wealthy residents and the variety of foreign-style houses
made Pondok Indah a symbol of modernity of the upper middle class
(Nas, 2005, p. 74). Members of the Pondok Indah community were look-
ing for a quieter and more comfortable environment away from the noise
of the metropolis, and the suburb of Pondok Indah became one of the
most prestigious in the Jakarta area.
The Pondok Indah suburb was inspired by the city of Beverly Hills in
the United States and was very well organized and maintained. For
instance, those who bought land and had not yet built their houses were
required to pay PT Metropolitan Kentjana to take care of the land, and the
company also managed the parks in the residential areas including water-
ing gardens every day. In fact, any damage to crops in the Pondok Indah
area was not taken care of directly by the Pondok Indah community but
were reported to and maintained by the company. Residents were forbid-
den to change buildings or any of the plants without the developer’s per-
mission. Expensive social facilities were constructed in the residential
areas, such as schools and malls (Sorensen & Okata, 2011, p. 178). This
can be seen in the elite structure of Pondok Indah, whose houses were
built in accordance with Mediterranean and country styles and with wide,
paved streets decorated with palm trees. In subsequent developments, the
settlements were supplemented with school infrastructures, such as Don
Bosco, Joint Embassy School, Tirta Marta, and Ora Et Labora, and the
construction of modern economic facilities, such as malls like the Pondok
Indah Mall (PIM), and sports facilities.

New Supporting Infrastructure

Pondok Indah consisted of not only luxurious housing but also infrastruc-
ture, including transportation, markets, health care facilities, and educa-
tional institutions. The Metro Pondok Indah highway was constructed to
connect the settlement to the rest of the area. The main road was com-
pleted in mid-1977 and mimicked the broad main street of Beverly Hills,
palm trees and all, although rather than California’s Phoenix sylvestris, the
less expensive Hyophorbe lagenicaulis were used in Pondok Indah
(Damayanti, 2013). In addition, the sides of some roads were decorated
with flower gardens.
120 I. S. ULFIARTI ET AL.

Metro Pondok Indah was intended to ease the pressures from the usual
traffic jams at the Kebayoran Lama railway and Blok A, Kebayoran Baru;
additionally, a new road was built with a direct link to Kebayoran Baru so
that all transportation access would not depend on the Ciputat highway.
The roads connecting Jumat Market, Marga Guna, Haji Nawi Street, and
Radio Dalam Street with a width of 50 m and a length of 3.5 km (Kompas,
1977, March 7, p. 3) were expected to accommodate three vehicles on the
right side and three on the left. With the new road, vehicles were able to
reach Kebayoran Baru within five minutes (Tempo, 1977, June 11, p. 35).
The new road network introduced options for other forms of transpor-
tation such as taxis, bajaj, and Metromini S79 along the Blok M-Cinere
route, although residents of Pondok Indah itself rarely used these services
and instead traveled in their private vehicles. However, the additional
forms of transportation were intended to support not only the Pondok
Indah community itself but also surrounding communities. The roads and
infrastructure made it easy to visit from the surrounding communities in
the region, and the PIM became a prime shopping destination according
to Revianti, one of the first inhabitants of Pondok Indah.
In addition to the stores, the mall offered restaurants, entertainment,
and even a water park. Before the mall, there was a Dwima store located
near the Metropolitan Kentjana office, and Revianti said that one Pondok
Indah resident had sold goods out of his garage that ranged from daily
necessities such as rice, mineral water, sugar, gas, and snacks to school and
laundry supplies. Residents themselves rarely shopped for groceries in the
Pondok Indah, however, delegating such tasks to their servants. Joannesa
reported that before the mall, residents had had to shop outside of the
areas at places such as Hero in Barito, Golden Truly in Fatmawati, Ratu
Plaza, Gajah Mada, Aldiron, and Melawai (Tempo, 1985, June 6, p. 66).
Developing the area also included health infrastructure. Construction
began in 1984 on a private hospital in the suburb to fulfill one of the gov-
ernment’s requirements regarding supporting infrastructure for the new
development. Pondok Indah Hospital was built on an area of 5500 m2 in
Metro Duta. People who sought treatment at the hospital came from vari-
ous backgrounds. For example, Indra Lesmana was an artist who was
treated for liver problems, and victims of a fire at the PIM were treated at
the hospital (Kompas, 1992, March 30, p. 10). Before the existence of this
hospital, Pondok Indah residents preferred to go to the Fatmawati
Hospital or other hospitals far away. Moreover, there was only one phar-
macy in Asihan.
 8 PONDOK INDAH AND PONDOK PINANG FROM 1973 TO 1997… 121

To provide sports activities to the residents of the Pondok Indah settle-

ment community, an international fitness club was opened, the Clark
Hatch. In the Pondok Indah community, there were gymnastics and jog-
ging groups organized in the park. Meanwhile, the settlement built its first
golf course on 538,584 m2 of land located on the border with the Grogol
River. The golf course was the fifth one to be built in Jakarta. Players were
required to be members of the Pondok Indah community. The Pondok
Indah golf course and the sports facility tended to focus more on interna-
tional golf matches and business activities (Eksekutif, 1997, November
21, p. 65).
Meanwhile, the educational infrastructure up until 1991 included facil-
ities to support students from kindergarten to high school. Some schools,
such as Don Bosco, Joint Embassy School, Bhakti Mulya, Ora Et Labora,
and Tirta Marta, were run by foundations with facilities that sometimes
contrasted starkly with those of the government-run public schools
(inpres). For example, Bhakti Mulya Kindergarten, a private school, pro-
vided swimming facilities, equipment for games, a space for free activities,
a library of books, and a library of toys; there was also a complete car park,
with signs and a miniature of the Semanggi Interchange in Jakarta (Tempo,
1985, July 20, p. 70). Despite their busy lives, residents of Pondok Indah
wanted their children to be comfortable and safe and have access to a qual-
ity education. Similarly, parents could carry out their daily activities know-
ing that their children would be under the school’s supervision.

Social and Economic Changes in Local Communities

The construction of the Pondok Indah settlements affected the surround-
ing communities. For example, social changes were observed. The indig-
enous people (Betawi) initially lived together as one big family. Several
families, with couples who were already married, lived under one roof.
This was possible given the amount of land and number of houses owned
by parents who were able to accommodate their extended families.
However, with Pondok Indah, this familial pattern changed. With the
money they acquired from selling their land to the developer of Pondok
Indah at a low price, they could only afford to buy smaller houses outside
the area, and extended families could no longer live together under
one roof.
According to Haji Abu Bakar, the purchase of land for the Pondok
Indah settlement resulted in a division of inheritance among the
122 I. S. ULFIARTI ET AL.

community, which caused some family members to choose to buy cheaper

land but in a different location. Idris’ parents, for example, sold all their
land to the Pondok Indah settlement project and shared the profits with
their children. However, Idris kept the land that had not been sold through
the project until 1982, when the selling price was higher. Idris and his
brothers then moved to different locations. His brothers moved to Parung
and Kedawung in 1977, and Idris and his parents moved to the Haji Muhi
area. Removals and changes in the life patterns of the surrounding com-
munity whose land was used to build settlements led to the marginaliza-
tion of indigenous communities in the eastern region of Pondok Indah.
Another social change that occurred in the community was an increase
in the number of people who performed the hajj after they sold their land;
generally, the former landowners who went on pilgrimage had owned
large land holdings for which they had received significant financial com-
pensation rather than receiving different land plots. However, according
to Abu Bakar, there were allegations that some people who were perform-
ing the hajj were doing so because they had been offered incentives, so
they would leave their land. The suburb also altered the lifestyles of the
community around Pondok Indah. For instance, the mall became a place
for schoolchildren, and Revianti said that they would usually go to school
with a change of clothes so they could go to the mall after school. Mahruf
said the mall became a new playground, and Timezone, the arcade, even
attracted children outside Pondok Indah. Children who had participated
in free group activities outdoors now wanted to play indoor arcade games.
Meanwhile, the Pondok Indah development had immense economic
impacts on the residents of the area who had been working in agriculture
and woodcraft. Farmers were evicted so their land could be developed,
and agricultural land cover decreased from 473,442 hectares in 1970 to
100 hectares by 1981 (Soerjani, 1981). By 1984, there were only 56 heads
of farming households around Pondok Pinang (BPS Jakarta Selatan,
1984), whereas there had been 684 only a decade before (Soerjani, 1981).
The farmers moved into orchid farming, opened stalls, became furniture
merchants, worked in woodwork, rented out rooms to immigrants, and
found other types of work.
Wood craftsmen, meanwhile, had negotiated a policy agreement with
the local government not to be evicted and could continue their work
uninterrupted. Concerned by threats to their livelihoods, the wood crafts-
men demanded land acquisition from the local government in 1975. They
were represented by Mohammad Sardjan, who had been the Minister of
 8 PONDOK INDAH AND PONDOK PINANG FROM 1973 TO 1997… 123

Agriculture in 1952 and was now the joint chairman of the wood crafts-
men in Pondok Pinang (Kompas, 1977, September 12, p. 4). In October
1976, the woodworkers’ wish was granted. Decree No. D/
IV/9223/e/6/76 dated October 22, 1976, on the formation and use of
land in an area of 60 hectares located in Kelurahan Pondok Pinang,
Kebayoran Lama subdistrict, South Jakarta area for the area of household
carving and furniture crafting business was approved, and the woodwork-
ers started a cooperative called Koperasi Kerajinan Kayu Ukiran dan
Rumah Tangga (Koperta).
Sales of wooden handicraft products increased with the entry of for-
eigners to the settlement of Pondok Indah as reported by local wood
craftsmen in interviews. The carvers traveled to the foreigners’ homes, and
the foreigners appreciated that the local motifs featured flowers, which
carvings from other areas did not, and that carvers would produce pieces
tailored to the wishes of the buyer. This state of affairs then attracted
woodworkers from regions outside Pondok Pinang, such as Jepara, which
is famous for its carpentry and woodwork. In 1976, as many as 1500
people migrated from Jepara to work in the woodwork industry (Kompas,
1978, March 27, p. 13).
In addition, some foreign customers appreciated their pieces so much
that they told relatives abroad and even their embassies about their art.
Their support made several local woodworkers successful businesspeople.
Haji Abu Bakar was able to send one of his children to university in
Pondok Indah, and he participated in the hajj pilgrimage twice and bought
land in other regions.
Other jobs that were created with the development of Pondok Indah
were service jobs such as caddy at the golf course and worker at the mall.
When there was an international golf match in 1983, most of the workers
were recruited from the communities around Pondok Indah, and when
the mall opened in 1991, the restaurant workers and shopkeepers were
from the surrounding community; many had lived on the land that had
been turned into the Pondok Indah suburb, and others who had once
lived on those lands worked for the new suburban homeowners as house-
maids. These job vacancies were usually only transmitted by word
of mouth.
Furthermore, the Pondok Indah development affected the bajaj drivers
around Pondok Indah. When Pondok Indah was completed, it attracted
new passengers, including those who did not live far from the Ciputat
highway, such as around houses in Pinang Mas and Pinang Perak. Their
124 I. S. ULFIARTI ET AL.

basecamp at that time was still around the Ciputat highway. According to
Revianti, bajaj passengers increased with the opening of the PIM. This
increase was expected to increase the revenue of the bajaj drivers, as they
began to stop in front of the mall.

Conclusion
In the era of Ali Sadikin, Southern Jakarta experienced a change in spatial
layout because of the need for urban settlements in Jakarta. As the capital
city, Jakarta had become home to many migrants. The city offered employ-
ment opportunities and the chance to build a better life, but development
required settlements with modern facilities.
The land chosen for the construction of an elite settlement in Pondok
Pinang was close to the central government and much cheaper than land
in Jakarta, and residence there was pitched to elites in Singapore and else-
where in Indonesia; foreign residents were even solicited to invest in the
economic development in Indonesia. Building Pondok Indah greatly
influenced the spatial layout of Pondok Pinang, transforming it from agri-
culture/plantation use to an elite settlement equipped with modern facili-
ties and an infrastructure that implied the exclusivity of its inhabitants.
The elite residential area also brought social and economic impacts to the
lives of surrounding communities.
With the disappearance of their agricultural holdings, the farmers of
Pondok Pinang lost their livelihoods and had to change occupations.
Many became woodworkers or sold food, and some rented their proper-
ties to migrants to the city. However, long-term woodworkers benefited
from Pondok Indah. In addition to receiving 60 hectares of land from the
regional government to support their woodworking businesses, they had
a built-in customer base in the residents of the new suburbs, and some
woodworkers saw great economic success. Service industry jobs also
emerged in Pondok Indah such as caddy, mobile trader, shopkeeper,
household assistant, gardener, security officers, and drivers.
The establishment of Pondok Indah pressured the people of Pondok
Pinang socially, economically, and culturally. Because farming was no lon-
ger a viable career option, the people of Pondok Pinang managed to sur-
vive by becoming woodworkers. Meanwhile, the fact that some of these
people chose to become workers in Pondok Indah could be interpreted as
their part in supporting the existence of Pondok Indah as an elite area in
Jakarta. Such an established interdependence is inevitable. In the
 8 PONDOK INDAH AND PONDOK PINANG FROM 1973 TO 1997… 125

Indonesian context, satisfaction is often gained through othering and con-

structing others as lesser parties. Seemingly persisting in the coexistence of
Pondok Pinang and Pondok Indah, such an approach has sustained their
existence, development, and interdependence.

Acknowledgments This work was supported by the Universitas Indonesia’s

Research Grant (PITTA 2017) managed by DRPM UI (Grant Number:
NKB-505/UN2.R3.1/HKP.05.00/2017). It was copyedited by ENAGO.

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 CHAPTER 9

Community-Based Practices of Archiving

Indonesian Popular Music: Redefining
the Notion of Indonesia

Ignatius Aditya Adhiyatmaka and Lilawati Kurnia

Introduction
From the era of Dutch colonialization to the present day, Indonesian pop-
ular music has been influenced by external and internal factors that have
contributed to its uniqueness. It involves various processes ranging from
appropriation to hybridization (Toynbee & Dueck, 2011). Musicians fre-
quently mix musical elements from outside of Indonesia with traditional
music, which has resulted in a genre that exhibits modern and Indonesian
characteristics (Wallach, 2002). The development of Indonesian popular
music started with keroncong, a significant cultural contribution from the
nineteenth to early twentieth centuries. Indonesian freedom fighters used
this music to disseminate the spirit of anticolonialism among the Indonesian
people at large. According to Lockard (1998), “Popular music has become

I. A. Adhiyatmaka • L. Kurnia (*)

Department of Literature, Faculty of Humanities, Universitas Indonesia,
Depok, Indonesia
e-mail: [email protected]; [email protected]

© The Author(s) 2025 129

M. Budiman, A. Kusno (eds.), Collective Memory, Marginality, and
Spatial Politics in Urban Indonesia.,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-97-4304-9_9
130 I. A. ADHIYATMAKA AND L. KURNIA

in recent decades a central feature of culture and daily life in Indonesia”

(p. 54). Therefore, Indonesian popular music as a cultural product can be
regarded as contributing to national identity. With its widely varied forms,
Indonesian popular music has become part of the discourse on being a
member of the national community and contributed to opinions on what
it means to be a citizen (Weintraub, 2010).
However, despite the significant role that Indonesian popular music
plays in daily public life, there have been no serious national efforts to date
to preserve or archive these materials. There is no equivalent in Indonesia
to the National Film and Sound Archive in Australia, the British Library
Sound Archive, or MusicSG in Singapore. Indonesia’s only institution for
archiving popular culture with any government support is Sinematek
Indonesia. This archive was initiated by Misbach Yusa Biran and other
Indonesian film workers and was realized under the administration of the
Governor of the Special District of Jakarta, Ali Sadikin, in 1975. Sinematek
Indonesia grew over time to become the official national film archive and
was financed by the state budget under the Ministry of Information. Regular
financial assistance, however, was stopped in 2001, placing Sinematek
Indonesia in the precarious position of trying to preserve film archives with
very limited and irregular funds from Yayasan Pusat Perfilman Haji Usmar
Ismail [Haji Usmar Ismail Film Center Foundation] (Elyda, 2014).
Studio Lokananta, one of the country’s largest and only state-owned
music recording companies, found itself in a similar situation (Theodore,
2013). When it was still under the Indonesian Ministry of Information,
Studio Lokananta’s role was to record and duplicate music to be played by
the 49 stations of Radio Republik Indonesia across the country. Today,
there is little doubt that Studio Lokananta launched old-time Indonesian
popular musicians such as Titiek Puspa, Waljinah, Bing Slamet, and Buby
Chen to nationwide popularity.
However, the studio also undertook a serious and well-managed
attempt to archive all the master recordings it had ever produced; it is no
exaggeration to say that Studio Lokananta’s archive of Indonesian popular
music is the most comprehensive to date. However, the studio could only
archive the master recordings it had produced and had no access to the
popular music produced across the country. Furthermore, the archive
owned by Studio Lokananta has been on the brink of disappearance since
it declared bankruptcy in 1977 and since the dissolution of the Indonesian
Ministry of Information in the late 1990s. The acute shortage of funding
 9 COMMUNITY-BASED PRACTICES OF ARCHIVING INDONESIAN POPULAR… 131

has resulted in “the deterioration of the condition of the archive that totals
no less than 40,000 master recordings” (Theodore, 2013, p. 30).
These alarming conditions regarding the preservation and archiving of
cultural artifacts, in particular, popular culture, triggered some individuals
and communities to document Indonesian popular music independently.
Coming from varied backgrounds, they are motivated to undertake this
activity because of difficulties they have experienced in accessing record-
ings, data, and information on old-time Indonesian popular music.
Between 2009 and 2016, at least four initiatives emerged with similar
intentions: namely, Irama Nusantara, Arsip Jazz Indonesia, Lokananta
Project, and Museum Musik Indonesia. Their founders worked collec-
tively in what Bennet (2009) described as do-it-yourself (DIY) preserva-
tionism to collect, archive, and preserve recordings and other materials
related to Indonesian popular music, eventually organizing them in a
manner that was accessible by the public.
Neither the Old nor the New Order governments considered archiving
popular music important because music was seen as a mere object of power
during these periods. However, in the post-Reformation era (particularly
during the presidency of Jokowi), archiving music became profitable.
Here, we analyze two impacts of the attempts to archive Indonesian popu-
lar music. First, archiving Indonesian popular music can be understood as
an attempt to save cultural heritage closely related to the collective memo-
ries of the urban sphere. Second, positioning archiving within the frame-
work of popular culture brings about condensed issues of historical
context, as mentioned above. In assessing these impacts, it is necessary to
describe how archiving transitioned from being an initiative of different
individuals to one of volunteer-based communities. Afterward, we discuss
in detail the main research problem of this chapter: memory and movement.
In this essay, we discuss how popular music is related to the concept of
Indonesia as a nation. Although there is no formal definition of popular
music, Weintraub (2010) defines it as being based on the masses. Storey
(2003) complements this definition by arguing that popular culture is also
the people’s dynamic culture and operates beyond mainstream or official
cultures. Centralization during the periods of the Old and New Orders
allowed the central government to determine all regulations, whereas the
decentralization that occurred after the Reformation encouraged a range
of individual and nongovernmental institutional initiatives. We will elabo-
rate on this later in the chapter.
132 I. A. ADHIYATMAKA AND L. KURNIA

For this study, we focused on four initiatives to archive popular music

in Indonesia: namely, Irama Nusantara, Arsip Jazz Indonesia, Lokananta
Project, and Museum Musik Indonesia. We discuss how the founders of
these initiatives are attempting to preserve the material past of popular
music in Indonesia and change notions of the country’s cultural heritage.
To achieve this, we conducted semi-structured ethnographic interviews
with the founders of each initiative and direct observations of some of
their activities to better understanding of the challenges as well as benefits
of archiving. Flinn (2007) put forward the concept of a community archive
that subsequent researchers came to use (see Baker, 2015; Baker & Huber,
2013; Collins & Carter, 2015; Brandellero et al., 2015) and that served as
the basis for this research.
It is important to mention that the aims and objectives, subject matter,
and approaches of the Indonesian popular music archiving initiatives are at
times different from those of the community archives. For this reason, we
also explored DIY heritage preservation (Baker, 2015) and activist archi-
vism (Collins & Carter, 2015). Of the four initiatives we observed, only
Museum Musik Indonesia owns physical archives that the public can easily
access. Arsip Jazz Indonesia is working on completing its collection, and
Irama Nusantara has uploaded its archived files for public dissemination.
Lokananta Project also assisted Lokananta Studio in uploading record
archives to the studio’s official website for ease of access to the public as
well as in publishing books from their archives. First, we describe the his-
torical contexts of the four initiatives to archive Indonesian popular music.
Then, we explore how each community uses popular music heritage prac-
tices and strategies to create publicly accessible popular music archives
without violating HAKI regulations.

Historical Context of Popular Music Indonesia

Because of regulations imposed on popular music in Indonesia, this dis-
cussion must be preceded by a description of the historical contexts in
which popular music was related to the affirmation of power in the past.
Ibrahim (2017) explain how factors such as power in the ideology of the
Guided Democracy during the Old Order, in concert with the power of
Lekra and the incarceration of Koes Plus, can be understood as attempts
to sustain power. During that time, Soekarno propagated anti-Western
discourses in order to ban Western culture (such as popular music) in
Indonesia. This propaganda affected Koes Plus, Lilis Suryani, and Titik
Puspa, who, according to Soekarno, were influenced by the West.
 9 COMMUNITY-BASED PRACTICES OF ARCHIVING INDONESIAN POPULAR… 133

Considered to be mimicking Western culture, their music was believed to

potentially ignite revolution in Indonesian youth. Long hair (gondrong)
was even prohibited in schools because it was deemed Western.
Soeharto’s New Order regime applied the opposite form of power.
Maintaining close ties with America, the regime encouraged all things
American. Cinemas showed Hollywood movies, and Western investments
facilitated the development of Indonesian popular culture; local film and
music were heavily influenced by their Western counterparts. In examin-
ing the Westernization of Indonesia, it is necessary to take into account
Pasaribu (2005), who posited that Western music had actually arrived in
Indonesia earlier than the twentieth century with the arrival of the Dutch.
Pasaribu (2005) found that before the Dutch, the Portuguese and
Spaniards had also brought Western music to Indonesia, ranging from
church hymns to dance music. However, during the New Order, popular
music was a medium for propagating the new ideology. Long hair mimick-
ing American celebrities was allowed, and Koes Plus even released three
Nusantara albums at the request of President Soeharto.
Dangdut was not allowed to be broadcasted on televisions until the
1970s, when the music of Oma Irama was played on TVRI, the govern-
ment’s official TV channel; this was a turning point for dangdut, which
began to enter the mainstream culture. However, it is also important to
note that, as Weintraub (2010) explained, Oma Irama was originally a
member of a rock band that believed dangdut to be overly sentimental and
similar to Malay music, and therefore, he modified it by adding Western
instruments. It was no surprise when Oma Irama became famous for his
Elvis-like rock star costumes and sideburns. His appearance on TVRI
demonstrated the significant power of the genre.
In the 1980s, music shows such as Aneka Ria Safari were broadcasted
by the Ministry of Communication under Ali Moertopo. Originally estab-
lished by the government in 1962 to welcome the Asian Games, TVRI
served as an entertainment channel and the government’s tool for dissemi-
nating propaganda. The Ministry of Communication directly managed
TVRI’s content (Al-Rasyid, 2010; Rachma, 2018). Originating from a
concern over the development of Indonesian music, Eddy Sud’s “Artis
Safari,” which gathered notable celebrities, transformed into a propaganda
tool for the Golkar Party. Celebrities who appeared on the program, such
as Ari Wibowo, Chicha Koeswojo, and Meriem Bellina, were obliged to
take part in the Golkar Party’s campaign safari. The New Order govern-
ment filtered celebrities not by their genre or singing capability but by
134 I. A. ADHIYATMAKA AND L. KURNIA

their support for the regime’s ideology and philosophy. In brief, Soekarno’s
and Soeharto’s governments utilized Indonesian popular music to spread
their political ideologies.
During the Reform Era, regulations on certain types of music were
loosened. Jokowi had declared that, in general, popular culture was good
for Indonesia’s economy, and under the banner of creative industry, vari-
ous popular culture products such as movies, comics, and music became
lucrative investments. To manage and support this creative industry,
Bekraf (the Creative Economy Agency) was established.
Led by Triawan Munaf, Bekraf was not only mandated to develop the
creative industry in terms of media but also encouraged different art exhi-
bitions such as Inacraft, the creation of regional souvenirs, and the devel-
opment of Indonesian coffee as profitable commodities. Bekraf aimed to
create a cultural repository to support various archiving activities. The
founders of two initiatives, Irama Nusantara and Lokananta Project, coop-
erated with Bekraf to open the archives of RRI (the government’s radio
station, established in 1945) and those of Lokananta (publisher of the
vinyl records played in RRI’s broadcasts). The studio was established in
1950, and Bekraf later became the largest producer of vinyl records in the
country.
Numerous events have reminded Jokowi’s government of the impor-
tance of archiving Indonesian popular music. For instance, when Malaysia
claimed the song “Rasa Sayange” as its cultural heritage, Jero Wacik of the
Ministry of Tourism issued an official statement to the government of
Malaysia to desist, and the feud would have lingered had the government
of Indonesia not found a compilation of Indonesian songs composed for
the 1962 Asian Games in Studio Lokananta’s collection of vinyl record-
ings. Among the recordings was “Rasa Sayange.” Such incidents encour-
aged the government to create a repository of cultural artifacts including
Indonesian popular culture. Although Jokowi’s government does not
exactly limit or manipulate music as the Old and New Order governments
did, the development of the creative industry has transformed music into
a commodity.

Concepts of Popular Music Heritage Practice

Analyzing popular music archiving initiatives in Indonesia revealed that
their activities were related to concepts put forward by researchers outside
Indonesia. However, the earlier researchers also presented the various
 9 COMMUNITY-BASED PRACTICES OF ARCHIVING INDONESIAN POPULAR… 135

obstacles that usually confront such initiatives, which gave us a much bet-
ter understanding of the function and role of the popular music archiving
initiatives that we researched, as well as the challenges they face.
Flinn (2007) described community archiving as “the grassroots activi-
ties of documenting, recording, and exploring community heritage in
which community participation, control and ownership of the project is
essential” (p. 153). The word “community” itself has a broad meaning,
but Flinn describes a community as “a group who define themselves on the
basis of locality, culture, faith, background or other shared identity or
interest” (p. 153; emphasis in original). The community of archivists Flinn
identified focused on documenting minority or marginalized communities
in response to the failure of mainstream heritage narratives and collections
to feature and actively represent their histories, stories, and knowledge
(Flinn et al., 2009).
Baker (2015) referred to DIY archiving activities as “a group of popular
music archives, museums and halls of fame that were founded by enthusi-
asts run largely by volunteers and which exist outside the frame of autho-
rized projects of national collecting and display” (p. 4). With activities and
functions running parallel to those of formal archiving institutions, these
initiatives created physical spaces for volunteers to learn skills “along the
way as they work to collect, preserve and make public artifacts related to
popular music culture” (Baker & Huber, 2013, p. 513).
Collins and Carter (2015) introduced the term “activist archivism” to
describe carrying out archiving activities as “an intended political response
to the limitations of formal archives maintained by media institutions and
traditional gatekeepers of cultural heritage where specific content is often
ignored or excluded for a variety of cultural and economic reasons”
(p. 126). Admittedly, there are many differences between community
archives and the concept of activist archivism. However, they share two
fundamental similarities.
First, “there is an underlying distrust of official fan archives and a desire
by creators of community archives to maintain autonomy” (Collins &
Carter, 2015, p. 129). Second, both are “motivated by the failure of main-
stream heritage narratives and collections to reflect and actively represent
their histories, stories and knowledge” (Collins & Carter, 2015, p. 130).
Concerning the difference between activist archivism and DIY institu-
tions, Collins and Carter (2015) emphasized the understanding of fan as
a collector, as used by Baker (2015) to represent private versus public
activities. They aptly described the fundamental activity “as a community
136 I. A. ADHIYATMAKA AND L. KURNIA

activity, one that relies on the collective efforts of a group of like-minded

people, who strive to make available the material objects of popular cul-
ture for consumption” (Collins & Carter, 2015, p. 128). Another funda-
mental difference is the preference of those involved in activist archivism
to upload their collected data for convenient online access by the public.

Making History Accessible to the Public

As we have introduced, within the context of archiving cultural artifacts,
four grassroots initiatives have emerged to preserve Indonesia’s popular
music. Despite some significant differences in their individual activities,
processes, and outputs, the founders of these archiving initiatives, Arsip
Jazz Indonesia, Irama Nusantara, Lokananta Project, and Museum Musik
Indonesia, share an understanding of the importance of their content to
society.
None of the individuals involved in these initiatives has formal skills in
heritage practices. However, all share a strong curatorial influence driven
by founders acting as gatekeepers with clearly stated aims based on their
personal backgrounds (Brandellero et al., 2015) to make their history
accessible “on their own terms” (Flinn et al., 2009, p. 73). That is, these
DIY archives are heavily influenced by their founders.
Chrisyaura Qotrunadha, who sparked Lokananta Project in November
2014, was very much concerned with the condition of Studio Lokananta’s
archive. She considers it necessary to document the studio’s history to
ensure that it is not forgotten by Indonesian society. In an attempt to
remind the public of the importance of Studio Lokananta in maintaining
the history of Indonesian popular music, Qotrunadha gathered her friends
from various backgrounds to jointly conduct a study on the archives of
Studio Lokananta from the 1950s to 1970s.
From its establishment to the present, Lokananta Project has been an
open community that anyone can join to attend discussions and partici-
pate in activities. The project has published a compendium on the history
of Indonesian popular music from Studio Lokananta’s materials. Lokananta
Project also helps promote the studio on social media and meets regularly
with Studio Lokana’s public relations department to discuss strategies to
raise awareness among young people.
Irama Nusantara was officially established in 2012 with the purpose of
widely disseminating information on Indonesian popular music after its
founders had grown frustrated with being unable to find popular
 9 COMMUNITY-BASED PRACTICES OF ARCHIVING INDONESIAN POPULAR… 137

recordings or information. That shared experience inspired them to create

a way to ensure easy public access to these files. The founders were also
aware that the lack of archiving culture in Indonesia meant that physical
evidence and documentation of Indonesian music was at risk of disappear-
ing before future generations could know about it.
Irama Nusantara created a website to host archived data as the most
effective way to raise “the awareness of the public of the fact that it is of
high importance that the public know and is familiar with the Indonesian
modern music being a part of the nation’s identity” (Irama Nusantara,
n.d.). To date, the group has uploaded more than 1500 Indonesian popu-
lar music recordings from the 1950s to the 1970s. Irama Nusantara chose
this period deliberately because music recordings from that time have
already become more difficult to find and therefore are at risk of being
forgotten.
Arsip Jazz Indonesia was established in 2010 as an attempt to fill the
gap in the documentation of history of jazz music in Indonesia. In 1999,
two Indonesian jazz music collectors, Alfred D. Ticoalu and Roullandi
N. Siregar, were the first to propose establishing an Indonesian jazz music
archive, and they began collecting recordings and any items related to
Indonesian jazz music. They made the materials accessible to the public in
2010 in an archive of materials related to jazz music in the Dutch East
Indies and Indonesia beginning in 1900. However, although the materials
are publicly accessible, Arsip Jazz Indonesia does not have a permanent
physical location. Instead, the materials are held at the founders’ private
home and are available on email request to them.
Museum Musik Indonesia has a very different aim. Located in Malang,
East Java, Museum Musik Indonesia’s archive consists of recordings and
memorabilia donated by the public, and anyone who donates a collection
automatically becomes an archive proprietor. The museum is preserving
the musical memory of its donors.
The archive established by Museum Musik Indonesia not only includes
artifacts related to Indonesian popular music but also includes music
recordings, books, and memorabilia from outside Indonesia. Hengki
Herwanto, a museum founder and a former music journalist, explains that
“Museum Musik Indonesia is aspiring to become a central footprint of all
Indonesian music activities as well as all kinds of music that are in existence
in Indonesia” (interview, October 15, 2016). The statement clearly indi-
cates that Museum Musik Indonesia aims not only to establish an
138 I. A. ADHIYATMAKA AND L. KURNIA

Indonesian popular music archive but also to document the entire history
of music in Indonesia.

Place-Making While Archiving

Heritage plays a crucial role in the construction of place, as it connects
past experiences to present-day localities (Moore & Pell, 2010). Although
popular music heritage in Indonesia remains relatively undefined, the
founders of these four archiving initiatives attribute value and meanings to
the materials they have memorialized. Thus, the practice of music heritage
in Indonesia can be understood according to a context in which personal
and collective musical memories are shaped and fixed in time and place.
The expression of unique localities that translate into the promotion of
identity through conservation is the manifestation of heritage practice.
Museum Musik Indonesia, for example, curated and displayed their
archives based on musicians’ place of origin. This type of curation is a form
of cultural adaptivity, “the selective socially meaningful adjustments and
alterations necessary to make something suit a new purpose under changed
conditions” (Darvill, 2014, p. 464). Cultural adaptivity humanizes, cele-
brates, and memorializes music and musicians, thus enabling Museum
Musik Indonesia to celebrate Indonesian popular music culture, in gen-
eral, and Malang’s music scene, in particular.

The Problems of Continuity and Sustainability

Although the missions of the initiatives are clear, the members have faced
challenges in opening their archives to the public. For instance, the initial
objectives of Lokananta Project were to create a digital music library, pub-
lish a book on the history and development of Studio Lokananta, and
produce compilations of music from the archive, but the project later
decided to only publish books after conflicts related to copyrights and
royalty sharing.
Arsip Jazz Indonesia and Museum Musik Indonesia also digitized their
archives but could not upload them to their websites because of copyright
issues. This indicates that “copyright has implications not only for creative
choices but also for the kinds of stories documentarians choose to tell”
(Larsen & Nærland, 2010, p. 54). Copyright regulations also dictate
which stories initiative members can tell in their archives.
 9 COMMUNITY-BASED PRACTICES OF ARCHIVING INDONESIAN POPULAR… 139

Irama Nusantara is the only initiative that grants access to its digitized
music files on its website, and in addition to music files, the group plans to
upload magazine articles, posters, and other materials. Maintaining this
open-access archive of the history of Indonesian music is an act of activist
archivism. It is noteworthy, however, that Irama Nusantara has thus far
eluded the copyright challenges that other initiative leaders have faced.
David Tarigan, a founder, believes that as long as their archive serves edu-
cational and not commercial purposes, they will not trigger any copyright
challenges.
These DIY archivists operate with very small outside donations, in
many cases using their own funds, and their greatest challenge is maintain-
ing the continuity and sustainability of their archives (Baker & Huber,
2013; Flinn et al., 2009). Our own observation also reveals that the
founders of the archives play the most important roles in their manage-
ment, which also makes them vulnerable.
The founders of Museum Musik Indonesia admitted that they had not
yet thought about succession planning, and in the event of something
happening to the founders, the sustainability and continuity of the museum
archive would be seriously threatened because “DIY projects are vulnera-
ble due to their reliance on the efforts of a few key individuals and their
appeal to restricted communities of interest” (Baker & Huber, 2013).
Arsip Jazz Indonesia is also working through the challenge of continuity
planning. Since its establishment, the archive has relied on the founders’
personal funds and has never received assistance from the government or
other donors, and the founders perform all archive activities: collecting,
documenting, and conducting public relations.
Moreover, the founders of Arsip Jazz Indonesia observed that many
Indonesian music collectors are reluctant to share access to their own col-
lections, largely because of a widely known sense of self-importance among
Indonesian popular music collectors. The founders of Arsip Jazz Indonesia
admit that they are somewhat “crippled” in attempting to add holdings
from Indonesian jazz music collectors to their archive. Lokananta Project
faces the similar challenge that only the founder has been conducting the
management activities, which naturally threatens that project’s continuity
as well.
Despite their similar missions of preserving Indonesia’s popular music
history and increasing public awareness by sharing the music and making
it freely available, the founders of the four initiatives we examined here
pursue their missions in different ways. For instance, Irama Nusantara
digitizes music recordings and uploads them to its website, whereas
140 I. A. ADHIYATMAKA AND L. KURNIA

Museum Musik Indonesia is building a physical archive of all things related

to popular music with the goal of establishing a museum. The differences
between the initiatives highlight the distinct challenges and opportunities
in the process of collecting, archiving, preserving, and eventually granting
access to the public.

Conclusion
This chapter presented four Indonesian community archives of popular
music that have contributed to creating and maintaining a better under-
standing of Indonesian popular music. The communities are demonstrat-
ing the desire to preserve, digitize, and exhibit the material culture of
Indonesian popular music in response to the lack of reliable references
regarding its history.
Centralization during the Old and New Orders caused the archiving of
Indonesian popular music to be subjugated under the responsibilities of
governmental institutions, such as the National Archives, but the govern-
ment at the time was unmotivated to preserve popular music outside of
the mainstream culture. Under decentralization, current attempts to
archive Indonesian popular music can be understood as negotiating popu-
lar music’s position, which was objectified, manipulated, and utilized by
existing authorities according to the ideologies of the time. The existence
of Bekraf and its support for the aforementioned negotiation confirms the
commodification of popular music by the state. However, we believe that
this coexistence has the potential to bring about other initiatives. Parties
outside the existing network of power can take advantage of the opportu-
nity to cooperate with Bekraf.
The absence of a formal institution to archive Indonesian popular music
meant that communities played a crucial role in archiving these materials
through collective memory. Initiatives to archive Indonesian popular
music were established because of the founders’ personal experiences, thus
creating various ways of seeing the past and constructing the history of
Indonesian popular music. The result is a variety of meanings, expressions,
and media that together influence the collective archive and how it is pre-
sented to the public. Moreover, although the relationship between place-­
making and the historical practice of popular music is complicated and
dynamic, it can define the heritage process at a local level brought to life
through archives in the context of urban spaces.
 9 COMMUNITY-BASED PRACTICES OF ARCHIVING INDONESIAN POPULAR… 141

Acknowledgments This work was supported by the Universitas Indonesia’s

Research Grant (PITTA 2017) managed by DRPM UI (Grant Number:
NKB-466/UN2.R3.1/HKP.05.00/2017). It was copyedited by ENAGO.

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 PART III

New Mood, Medium, and Media

 CHAPTER 10

Traditional Market as a Public Space: Thomas

Karsten’s Design for Johar Market
in Semarang (1906–1939)

Annisa Maghfira Surendro and Bondan Kanumoyoso

Introduction
Thomas Karsten, a Dutch architect and urban planner, has been widely
discussed in Indonesia’s urban history from multiple perspectives: the
influence of his designs on the lives of colonial cities and their consistency
in calculations and style. He began his career as an architect in Semarang
but was later recognized as an urban planner who had significant impacts
on the Dutch East Indies urban environment. Karsten envisioned cultural
unity between European communities, indigenous people, and other eth-
nic communities in one colonial society. However, his vision rarely came
to fruition in colonial societies, which remained ethnically divided physi-
cally and socially.

A. M. Surendro • B. Kanumoyoso (*)

Department of History, Faculty of Humanities, University of Indonesia,
Depok, Indonesia
e-mail: [email protected]; [email protected]

© The Author(s) 2025 145

M. Budiman, A. Kusno (eds.), Collective Memory, Marginality, and
Spatial Politics in Urban Indonesia.,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-97-4304-9_10
146 A. M. SURENDRO AND B. KANUMOYOSO

In “Ir. Thomas Karsten and Indonesian Town Planning, 1915–1940,”

Bogaers and de Ruijter (1986) examined Karsten’s thoughts and contri-
butions to Indonesian colonial urban planning assuming that urban plan-
ning, a discipline that was actually developed in the Netherlands, had been
discussed very little in the Indies. They presented Karsten as an architect
and urban planner who deserved recognition and based their paper on
M. J. Granpré Molière’s review of Karsten’s essay entitled “Indiese
Stedebouw” (“The Urban Planning of the Indies”). Bogaers and de
Ruijter essentially defined Karsten: who he was, his ideas, and how he
contributed to the development of urban planning in the Indies.
In addition, Joost Coté began studying Thomas Karsten in 2004. His
2014 article, “Thomas Karsten’s Indonesia,” inspired the research for this
chapter. In his article, Coté explains Karsten’s belief in racial integration to
create what he expressed in his personal diary as de eenheid der wereld
(“the united world”), a postcolonial state in which every social class could
live harmoniously without racial segregation. Together with Hugh
O’Neill, P. K. M. Van Roosmalen, and Helen I. Jessup, Joost Coté also
wrote a book titled The Life and Work of Thomas Karsten (2017) that
became a main reference for the study of Karsten. Coté had obtained
authorization from Karsten’s family to analyze his personal diary, which
had survived Japanese World War II internment at Camp Baros in Cimahi
near Bandung. Karsten died in the camp in 1945.
Karsten’s complex thinking can also be discussed from other perspec-
tives. First, although multiple researchers have examined his vision of a
new colonial society without racial segregation, most studied his design
for small public housing, which was unavoidable given that he did suggest
separating economic classes as a solution to racial segregation in colonial
society. With the same purpose in mind, however, he also designed
markets.
Architecturally, Karsten’s market design has been widely discussed, but
no scholars have examined the relationship between market buildings and
his antipathy to racial segregation. Therefore, with this chapter, we attempt
to unify these ideas: not only how Karsten’s market design complied with
his duties as an architect but also how he attempted to transform markets
as urban public spaces. Karsten’s idea was revolutionary at a time when
town squares and city parks were regarded as the only public spaces.
The spatial scope of this research was the city of Semarang. Karsten
designed three markets in Semarang: Pasar Randusari, Pasar Jatingaleh,
and Pasar Johar, which was the central market and the largest of the three.
 10 TRADITIONAL MARKET AS A PUBLIC SPACE: THOMAS KARSTEN’S… 147

These markets were part of Karsten’s gradual effort to establish markets as

public spaces in colonial society. For this study, we analyzed the time
period from 1906 to 1939. The market restorations began in 1906 when
Semarang became a municipality, and Pasar Johar was completed in 1939.

Karsten’s Vision of Colonial Architecture

Born in Amsterdam, Thomas Karsten graduated with a degree in architec-
ture engineering from the University of Delft. He soon became well-­
known for his interests in urban planning; contemporary Dutch policy at
the time greatly impacted urban planning in the Netherlands, thus influ-
encing his work. The 1901 Housing Regulations became the first frame-
work for cities in the Netherlands to consider during urban planning. At
the time, urban planning as a field of study was part of architectural stud-
ies, and as a profession, it was only just emerging. In 1904, Karsten com-
menced one of his first architectural projects, designing a people’s housing
project in Amsterdam (Bogaers & de Ruijter, 1986, pp. 72–73). Four
years later, he joined the housing division in the Sociaal-Technische
Vereeniging van Democratische Ingenieurs en Architecten (The Socio-­
Engineering Association of Democratic Engineers and Architects).
In 1914, he traveled to the Indies to work in his friend Maclaine Pont’s
architectural firm in Semarang. At that time, European intellectuals were
quite concerned about the social conditions in cities in the Indies, such as
Semarang. A year later, Pont’s health worsened, and he returned to the
Netherlands; Karsten then opened his own firm. As an architect, Karsten
designed office buildings that still exist today, including Nederlandsch-­
Indische Levensverzekerings en Lijfrente Maatschappij (NILLMIJ; now the
office of Jiwasraya), Stoomvaart Maatschappij Nederland (now the office
of Djakarta Llyod), and Joanna Stroomtraam Matschappij (now the office
of PT. KAI Daerah Operasi IV) (Sumalyo, 1993, p. 43).
Karsten’s career peaked as he became the urban planning adviser for
Semarang upon his return to the city. In 1916, the government appointed
Karsten to design Semarang’s expansion to the southern hills into the
Candi Baru region. During the 1920s and 1930s, Karsten worked as an
urban planning adviser for municipalities in Java (Semarang, Bandung,
Batavia, Magelang, Malang, Bogor, Madiun, Cirebon, Meester Cornelis
(Jatinegara), Yogyakarta, and Surakarta), three municipalities in Sumatra
(Palembang, Padang, and Medan) and one in Kalimantan (Banjarmasin).
He also contributed ideas for the order of economic space, especially for
148 A. M. SURENDRO AND B. KANUMOYOSO

market improvement and development, and his ideas were implemented

in three markets in Semarang, namely, Pasar Djatingaleh (1930), Pasar
Randusari (1932), and Pasar Johar (1933). From an architectural design
perspective, these markets were similar.
In the 1920s, Karsten and two other famous architects in the Dutch
East Indies, Maclaine Pont and Wolff-Schoemaker, shared their thoughts
on defining “Indies architecture.” Karsten and Pont believed that tradi-
tional architecture could become the foundation for Indies architecture,
but Wolff-Schoemaker held the opposite view, and the differences stemmed
from the architects’ different backgrounds. Karsten was born and raised in
the Netherlands but migrated to Java and declared the Dutch East Indies
his homeland. Pont was born in Batavia into a family who had been in the
Dutch East Indies for five generations, and similar to Karsten, he spent his
childhood and early education in the Netherlands. Wolff-Schoemaker,
however, had been born in Java and educated at a military academy in the
Netherlands and had returned to the Dutch East Indies as an architect
with the Department of General Affairs.
The discussion began with Karsten’s agreement with P. A. J. Moojen,
who stated that the quality of architecture in the Dutch East Indies
improved with the arrival of architects from Europe. Despite his agree-
ment, Karsten also criticized the idea; he did not believe all European
architects produced better work. In fact, Karsten believed that the Dutch
East Indies had already been demonstrating independent architecture, and
Karsten’s use of the word “independent” was indeed progressive: Karsten
was declaring that the architecture of the Dutch East Indies had already
developed in a radically different direction from what was happening in
the Netherlands, and the arrival of European architects had no significant
impact on Indies architecture.
Karsten believed that the key element of achieving good Indies archi-
tecture was unifying souls, particularly the souls of the East and the West.
Domination of one over the other would jeopardize this unity, and in a
colonial society, domination is reflected in race-based segregation. Karsten
believed that colonial domination would weaken because the colonial
society was gradually heading toward unity. Karsten stated that “to achieve
the best solution based on wider perspective for issues related to domestic
housing, educated Indonesian architects would be required” (de Vletter,
2009, p. 148).
Karsten’s views on Indies architecture were different from those of
Pont and Wolff-Schoemaker. According to Pont, traditional architectural
 10 TRADITIONAL MARKET AS A PUBLIC SPACE: THOMAS KARSTEN’S… 149

style could be a panacea in the search for Indies architectural style, a con-
clusion he arrived at after studying the architecture of native houses and
buildings, which utilized local materials; the buildings Pont designed fol-
lowed the standards of hygiene and architectural taste of Europeans living
in the Dutch East Indies. Wolff-Schoemaker, in contrast, based his views
on technical approaches. He had little interest in incorporating traditional
architecture into his works because he believed traditional architecture
could not serve as a foundation for modern architecture. Wolff-Schoemaker
also contended that traditional architecture had not significantly contrib-
uted to the general development of architecture in the Dutch East Indies.
These three perspectives were embodied in different architectural styles.
Holding on to modern views, Wolff-Schoemaker designed in the style of
Art Deco, which he believed would create an atmosphere of a modern city
(Hadinoto, 2012, pp. 68–74). Meanwhile, Pont saw potential in tradi-
tional architecture; even though it was grounded in local wisdom and
materials, Pont believed that the wisdom of Western architecture could
enrich traditional architecture to satisfy high standards. Meanwhile,
Karsten dreamed of a “united world” and sought to achieve a balance
between traditional architecture’s spirituality and Western architecture’s
technicality. Motivated to combine and balance Eastern and Western
architectural styles, Karsten developed a unique approach to his work.
Karsten’s idea of a united world and its relation to Indies architecture
was reflected in his desire to create an architectural style that could be
accepted by all people in the Dutch East Indies. This notion mirrored his
political support for collectivism (Nas, 2007, p. 151). Architecture should
be placed in the context of city planning, and Karsten understood cities as
organic unities in which all differences and unrelated aspects must be uni-
fied and harmonized; this meant that every tendency to interrupt har-
mony should be repressed.
Therefore, Karsten highly recommended integrating traditional Dutch
architecture into Indies architecture. Here Karsten’s views on a united
world become questionable: Either his views are revolutionary, or he
merely aims to achieve harmony by repressing differences. Karsten’s
emphasis on the unity between traditional aspects and the modern,
Western world was apparently the reason he did not garner more than
lukewarm acceptance during Indonesia’s national movement.
150 A. M. SURENDRO AND B. KANUMOYOSO

Becoming an Urban Planner

Karsten conveyed his ideas in professional organizations such as Vereeniging
voor Lokale Belangen (Association of Local Areas) and Planatologische
Studigroep (Planology Study Group). From 1919 to 1925, Karsten
refrained from engaging in professional topics because he had a broader
cultural agenda. For one, he published a weekly journal titled De Taak
(Task) in 1917. De Taak contributors were intellectuals of various ethnici-
ties who wrote about important elements of indigenous traditions, espe-
cially in Java, that were to be maintained and modernized. De Taak was
dedicated to analyzing various aspects of Javanese culture: architecture,
music, arts and crafts, and lifestyle in general. The word “task” was empha-
sized not specifically to incorporate Western ideas but rather to prepare
Javanese society to develop a modern way of thinking.
Although De Taak paid great attention to Javanese culture, its editorial
group declared, “There has not been the slightest chance at this time that
the Javanese can determine such development, not even their intellectu-
als.” However, Karsten believed that the Javanese could eventually lead
their own society, and he positioned himself as a European who would
help the Javanese modernize. Karsten considered that the Europeans’ task
was to provide the leadership the Javanese needed in the modern world
(Coté, 2014, pp. 70–71).
Based on Karsten’s many works in architecture, urban planning, and
social critique, the government recognized him as an architectural and
urban planning expert. In 1930, he was appointed a member of the
Bouwbeperkingscommissie (Commission on Urban Reform). This commis-
sion then generated Stadsvormingsordonnantie (Urban Planning
Ordinance), a national urban planning regulation implemented in 1938
(Rahardjo, 2013, p. 7).
However, Karsten was still considered too radical and critical; his criti-
cisms were appearing in discussions, papers, and essays, and he had always
opposed the colonial rule of separation by race. He thought that if hous-
ing were divided by economic strata, based on his vision of one colonial
society, unifying Eastern and Western cultures could form a new colonial
society such as that in America (Coté, 2014, p. 80). One result of his views
was that his appointment as professor at the Technisce Hoogeschool Bandung
was postponed until the early 1940s.
Karsten’s principles made a great mark in design for urban planning.
His focus was always providing housing and public spaces to support
 10 TRADITIONAL MARKET AS A PUBLIC SPACE: THOMAS KARSTEN’S… 151

establishing the stedelijke middenstand, the urban middle-class population

of Java (Coté, 2014, p. 74). To unite colonial society, Karsten realized that
the Javanese community had to grow intellectually but without removing
its cultural roots, and as an urban planner, he had the means to support
this objective. For Karsten, designing public spaces and neighborhoods
together was similar to providing a physical framework for modern living
in urban communities. At the 1925 Volkhuisvestingcongress (Congress of
Housing), he encouraged his fellow architects and urban planners to learn
the rhythm of Javanese people’s daily lives in order to create a modern
Javanese community.
To establish the structure of the city’s economic sector, Karsten recog-
nized the importance of the marketplace, believing it important to soci-
ety’s welfare. However, he saw that markets could appear slum-like, and
therefore, some rules for the city’s aesthetics were needed (Karsten, 1938,
p. 77). Karsten’s awareness of buildings’ appearance and function encour-
aged him to design efficient markets with a unique character, but he also
believed that from a social perspective, a building’s design should mesh
with its surrounding environment and that development should not elimi-
nate its people’s historical elements. Further, he believed that an urban
planner should observe a society’s character rather than considering only
technical issues related to economics and cleanliness, and an example of
this was his desire to create a market for the indigenous community
(Karsten, 1919, p. 299).
Karsten’s personal life was well established in Indonesia. He married an
indigenous woman named Soembinah in 1921, a woman who had
European blood from her father. Specifically, Karsten’s wife’s grandfather
was Heinrich Wieland, a retired Swiss soldier who settled in Wonosobo,
and her father was Mangoenredjo, a village head in the Dieng Mountain
area. Karsten has a great appreciation for Indonesian women. A common
practice during that time was for Dutch men to have concubines or nyai,
but very few Dutch men married indigenous women, but Karsten had a
different understanding with local indigenous women.
Karsten married Soembinah and encouraged her to learn Dutch and
socialize with European women. She played a significant role in Karsten’s
life, such as accompanying him on a trip to Europe in 1930. Together,
Karsten and Soembinah had four children, one of whom followed in
Karsten’s footsteps as an architect. According to their son Simon, it was
necessary to understand two main things in order to understand Karsten’s
152 A. M. SURENDRO AND B. KANUMOYOSO

ideas: his love for the homeland and his high appreciation of Soembinah
(Rahardjo, 2013, p. 7).
Ironically, radical nationalist groups considered Karsten too coopera-
tive with the government; his concept of colonial society’s unification con-
tradicted the groups’ concept of independence. According to Karsten,
Indonesia’s independence did not need to be achieved by revolution but
could be achieved through education. Nevertheless, there is no doubt that
Indonesia occupied a very special place in his heart. Shortly before he died
in the Japanese detention camp in Cimahi, Karsten asked his doctor to
record the following in his diary as his last words: “Indonesia bermoelialah,
Indonesia bersatoelah” (“Indonesia be noble, Indonesia be united”)
(Rahardjo, 2013, p. 7).

Markets in Semarang in the Early

Twentieth Century
At the beginning of the twentieth century, there was a request for self-­
governance from people outside Batavia who felt neglected by the central
government. After much consideration and discussion, in 1905, the cen-
tral government officially imposed Decentralisatie Wet, or the
Decentralization Act. This law granted autonomy to regions that met the
requirements of municipal status, and Semarang was one of them. On
April 1, 1906, Semarang received municipal status from the central gov-
ernment of the Dutch Netherlands Indies.
However, this change was implemented in stages. It took about 4 years
for the city to establish a treasury and about 10 years for it to establish
such governmental apparatus as a mayor. However, this did not prevent
Semarang’s municipal council from conducting its duties. Indeed, the
council’s main intention was urban planning, and its earliest policy was to
expand the city to the southern hills.
The municipal council also took over the markets to improve the econ-
omy of the city’s spatial structure; the council realized that the market was
the key factor in regulating economic space. Good market planning could
concentrate the urban community’s “buying and selling activities so it
would not disrupt other life sectors” (Wertheim, 1958, p. 31). In fact, the
municipality had attempted to implement urban market planning long
before Karsten arrived in Semarang.
 10 TRADITIONAL MARKET AS A PUBLIC SPACE: THOMAS KARSTEN’S… 153

On November 9, 1885, Staatsblad No. 72 stated that under local lead-

ers’ supervision, residents, or users, should keep their markets clean.
Following this, the resident (mayor) of Semarang issued stricter market
regulations, so a cleaning system was established by collecting one cent per
day from each seller (Regulation of sanitation and market order in
Semarang Residence, 1899). However, the government failed to collect
enough money to build an effective market sanitation system.
After becoming a municipality, Semarang took over markets as part of
its efforts to manage the city’s health, especially its sewage and waste dis-
posal, but at that time, the city was still experiencing financial constraints,
and many markets were still built on private lands. In 1907, the municipal
government officially included market management in its budget, allocat-
ing 14,400 gulden annually to this priority. In 1910, the government
replaced the one-cent collection system with official taxes that did not
burden sellers and that clarified how funds would be allocated. The water
and electricity company, which provided the most revenue for Semarang
City, could cover budget shortfall (Gedenkboek der Gemeente Semarang
1906–1931, 1931, p. 35).
Until 1910, the municipal government did not have the right to gain
benefit from markets. Municipal revenues were derived from merchants’
rents on the venues and were incorporated into budgets for the markets’
maintenance. The municipal government also implemented a system to
support sellers’ welfare. The rental rates ranged from 1 cent/m2 per day to
10 cents/m2 per day, among the cheapest compared with other munici-
palities, and Semarang also provided Pasar-creditwezen (market loans), a
special loan program that prevented sellers from becoming indebted to
moneylenders. This market loan carried 6% interest, with a weekly install-
ment payment plan (Baldinger, 1938, pp. 48–53).
By 1910, Semarang had taken over eight markets: Pasar Pedamaran
Lor, Pasar Pedamaran Tengah, Pasar Pedamaran Kidul, Pasar Ambengan,
Pasar Beteng, Pasar Djurnatan, Pasar Karang Bidara, and Pasar Peterongan.
The municipality quickly took over other markets after Stbl. No. 379,
1914, which regulated economic activities as part of the local municipali-
ty’s responsibility, including markets as a key economic activity. In 1917,
the city government of Semarang officially took over Pasar Johar. Following
this takeover, Semarang’s government established system improvements.
Approximately 25 years later, the number of markets taken over had
increased to 16.
154 A. M. SURENDRO AND B. KANUMOYOSO

The concept of the central market first emerged at that time. The
municipality developed an ideal concept for a clean, neat market compris-
ing five parts: (1) air and light flow; (2) ease of clearance after markets
close; (3) protection of sellers and buyers from rain and direct sunlight;
(4) good organization; and (5) easy access with distinct divisions. Thus,
market design had begun, and this ideal market was eventually built on the
site of a former prison.

Karsten’s Design for Pasar Johar

Before building Pasar Johar, Semarang owned a city prison located in
front of the old square in the northern part. Johar (mahogany) trees sur-
rounded the prison, providing a shady area for visitors, and then, some
peddlers began selling commodities in the area. By 1865, increasing num-
bers of traders had turned parts of the square into a market that residents
called Pasar Johar, after the johar trees.
One factor that influenced Pasar Johar’s rapid development was the
density of Pasar Pedamaran; this market was 7000 m2 and could not be
expanded any farther because of the surrounding settlements, but the
growing number of sellers raised the need for new land. By 1890, the
Pasar Johar area greatly resembled Pasar Pedamaran, and by the time of an
1898 government inspection of Pasar Johar, some 240 sellers owned per-
manent places for selling their commodities (Liem, 2004, p. 176).
In response to this crowding, Pasar Johar was rebuilt and merged with
Pasar Pedamaran, and it was expanded more when the prison was moved
to another location to incorporate new lands that had been purchased
from Chinese residents. The market area also expanded into some parts of
the square and the city park. The government aimed to merge other small
markets, such as Pasar Benteng, Pasar Jurnatan, and Pasar Pekojan, into
one centralized market, the central market. Until 1930, Semarang had 13
markets, and its total market area increased from only 13,000 m2 to
56,000 m2 (Gedenkboek der Gemeente Semarang 1906–1931, 1931,
p. 291).
In 1931, as the first step in expanding Pasar Johar, the government
destroyed the old prison building and developed Pasar Jatingaleh in the
south in the same year while Pasar Randusari was still under construction.
These two markets were the first concrete markets that Karsten designed,
and they incorporated the five market elements listed above. In addition,
commodities in these two markets were arranged in a particular order.
 10 TRADITIONAL MARKET AS A PUBLIC SPACE: THOMAS KARSTEN’S… 155

After obtaining the government’s trust, Karsten was appointed to

design the central market, which the city government hoped would cen-
tralize urban economic activity. The government selected Pasar Johar, a
combination of five old markets, to be the central market because of its
strategic location. Conversely, the old markets—Pasar Johar, Pasar
Pedamaran, Pasar Beteng, Pasar Jurnatan, and Pasar Pekojan—had been
seedy and located downtown, Pasar Johar was designed with four blocks
of buildings and eight-meter-wide hallways as connectors.
Karsten completed his first design in 1933. It was similar to Pasar
Jatingaleh but much larger, and the design itself was intended to accelerate
construction. Even so, in the following years, the design was revised. In
the early 1930s, the Great Depression had delayed work because of unsta-
ble prices for building materials, but in mid-1937, private investors ten-
dered an offer to continue the market’s development with some
adjustments in design. However, the adjustment was using about 2.8 tons
more teak as column buffers; although it would cost less, it risked termite
attack. Therefore, Karsten refined his design, and his final design in
mid-1937 used more steel even though it was more expensive.
Among the prominent changes at Pasar Johar from the design of Pasar
Jatingaleh were that the columns were taller and slimmer and that there
was now a second floor on the Pasar Johar building’s side. Unfortunately,
Karsten’s design for Pasar Randusari could not be located, but field obser-
vations lead to the conclusion that Pasar Randusari was Karsten’s initial
design, prior to Pasar Jatingaleh and Pasar Johar. Evidence is the absence
of a design for shops on Pasar Randusari’s outermost areas, which Pasar
Johar has. Multilevel roofs support air and light circulation in both Pasar
Jatingaleh and Pasar Randusari, but Pasar Johar does not have a multilevel
roof. However, all three markets have terraced floors to facilitate traders’
sales of their commodities.
Karsten remarked that because of spatial limitations, the land should be
used to its maximum; because there was no available open land near Pasar
Johar, market space needed to be maximized with multilevel development.
However, the second floor should not fully cover the ground floor, and
Karsten ensured that it would not block the light or hinder air circulation;
rather, the second floor would only cover the market’s outermost shops.
In fact, the market’s outer shops maximized space and served as dividers
so that traders would not sell their commodities outside the market. For
Pasar Johar, we can imagine a two-story building with a large open space
resembling an atrium and making a grand impression.
156 A. M. SURENDRO AND B. KANUMOYOSO

The design characteristic that made Pasar Johar unique was its octago-
nal columns with a mushroom shape, that is, widening at the top. The
mushroom design had been incorporated at Pasar Randusari and Pasar
Jatingaleh, but the columns of Pasar Johar were higher and thinner; they
seemed to enlarge the space because they did not require large blocks to
support the roof. A person who looked up would see that the ceiling alter-
nated between the mushroom columns and also-octagonal air and light
circulation holes. The columns and holes stretched from end to end, so
that without partitions, the entire surface beneath the roof received full
light and air. There were no dark, musty rooms, and good lighting pre-
vented rat and cockroach infestation. However, some feared that as a
result of hundreds of years of sediment, the texture of Semarang’s soil
could not support those columns. To prevent soil erosion, Karsten used
drains to strengthen each column and covered the floor with andesite
stone, which looked clean and could be easily cleaned.
Compared with other markets in the same era, inter-ethnic interactions
were fairly tense inside Pasar Johar, partly because Karsten maintained the
floors’ terraced design. Until that time, most traditional markets main-
tained the strong local character of traders sitting on the floor while buy-
ers, who had higher status, stood, but Karsten encouraged a united
colonial society inside the market without racial segregation; he designed
the booths so that traders sitting on the floor were higher than the aisles
of standing buyers. After overcoming various obstacles, the market opened
in 1939 and was fairly successful. For the first decade after its completion,
Pasar Johar was considered the grandest market in Southeast Asia.

Conclusion
Through Thomas Karsten’s design talents, which were ahead of his time,
Semarang succeeded in improving its markets’ physical facilities and man-
agement. He offered the market as an urban public space, that is, a place
where people of different races and ethnicities could participate in eco-
nomic activities. He lived in an era when urban planning issues were
greatly discussed in Europe. After being involved in various projects and
organizations, Karsten decided to work in Semarang, where he developed
his career as a prominent architect and urban planning expert in the Dutch
Netherlands Indies. He designed buildings, worked in urban planning,
and was often involved in discussions on housing issues.
 10 TRADITIONAL MARKET AS A PUBLIC SPACE: THOMAS KARSTEN’S… 157

Karsten had a vision that he called a united world, which became the
basis of all his concepts and designs for urban planning and architecture.
Joost Coté published a comprehensive paper on how Karsten was inspired
by various other scientific fields, such as psychology. When Karsten visited
America, he witnessed an example of the unification he wanted to establish
in the Dutch Netherlands Indies. Whether Karsten was aware of the ethnic
issues in America remains unclear; most likely, he perceived ethnic unity in
America only from a housing perspective.
In addition, Karsten wrote his thoughts in the weekly journal De Taak,
which published the writings of many intellectuals of various ethnicities.
He believed that the European community had a duty to scientifically
promote Javanese society’s way of thinking without quashing traditional
values, and he considered this a step toward modernization. However,
that he did not consider the Javanese people’s level of education seems
likely; surely local wisdom for urban planning exists, but so far, we have
not identified it. Meanwhile, Karsten maintained important traditional
elements in his architecture that are less visible in Pasar Johar’s design but
can be observed in the Sobokarti Theater in Semarang.
Karsten’s career peaked when he was appointed a member of the Urban
Planning Ordinance in 1938. He played a major role in the organization,
drafting the concept and rules of Indonesian national urban planning.
Although Karsten worked hand in hand with the government, he was able
to express his antisegregation vision; he envisioned a housing system based
on economic class division. Unfortunately, however, economic class divi-
sion still manifested according to ethnic categories; most of the middle
and upper classes were European or Chinese. Even so, his efforts were not
in vain: Karsten’s work introduced sanitation and health in markets and
several lower-class settlements.
Before Karsten arrived, the Semarang municipal government had issued
various policies on sanitation and market-space management that had
come to fruition earlier and were more advanced than in other municipali-
ties. Under those circumstances, Karsten had ample room to realize his
vision because the government’s rules for markets supported his designs.
Semarang provided the technical support Karsten needed, not only finan-
cial but also by opening the city square and park for the purpose of a new
market. With this support, Karsten designed three markets for Semarang:
Pasar Randusari, Pasar Jatingaleh, and Pasar Johar.
It is likely that Karsten designed Pasar Randusari earlier than Pasar
Jatingaleh, even though Pasar Jatingaleh was completed one year earlier.
158 A. M. SURENDRO AND B. KANUMOYOSO

This is evidenced by an absence of shop designs on Pasar Randusari’s outer

sides and the fact that its pillars were shorter and wider than those of
Jatingaleh. In contrast, Pasar Johar’s mushroom-shaped pillars looked
slim and towering, becoming one of its trademarks. Another development
was the roof shape; Pasar Randusari and Pasar Jatingaleh had multilevel
roofs to support air circulation but Pasar Johar did not. Instead, the mar-
ket’s height allowed good air circulation because ventilation holes had
been refined based on a newer design. Another one of Pasar Johar’s key
characteristics was the outer side’s second floor, which provided a grand
impression of the open space in the middle of the building.
At this point, the principle of unification had been realized, as Karsten
used Western architecture for a traditional Javanese market. The manifes-
tation of his desire to eliminate racial segregation began with Pasar
Randusari, where Karsten elevated sellers; trading became easier because
sellers sitting on high floors could interact face to face with buyers.
However, Karsten did not eliminate traditional elements when designing
a modern store in which the seller sat in a chair or stood behind a counter.
Thus, he successfully designed a space of equality without changing exist-
ing cultural structures.
Unfortunately, by 1990, only 50 years after this clean, forward-looking
design was completed, the Adipura team named Pasar Johar the dirtiest
market in Indonesia. Moreover, in 2015, the market caught fire, and its
revitalization remains unclear. However, Pasar Johar is worthy of being
designated a cultural heritage site, at least partially because the history of
its development process demonstrates that history is not black and white.
Karsten’s market design illustrates that some Dutch colonials were truly
concerned about indigenous people’s welfare. Indeed, his concept of uni-
fication contradicted the concept of independence. However, with his last
words, he expressed the inevitability of Indonesian independence:
“Indonesia bermoelialah, Indonesia bersatoelah.”

Acknowledgments This work was copyedited by ENAGO.

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and your intended use is not permitted by statutory regulation or exceeds the
permitted use, you will need to obtain permission directly from the copy-
right holder.
 CHAPTER 11

Representation of Mooi Indie

in Nature-­Based Tourism: Development
of Tourism in Bandung from 1925 to 1941

Esti Indah Puji Lestari, Tri Wahyuning Mudaryanti,

and R. Tuty Nur Mutia Enoch Muas

Introduction
The history of tourism in Indonesia has yet to be studied extensively.
According to Sunjayadi (2007), this is because of the assumption that
tourism in Indonesia has only grown since the 1970s, which neglects the
history of colonial tourism (p. xv). Yet, when examined more deeply, the
activities that led to the development of tourism were found in colonial
society.
In his book Vereeniging Toeristen Verkeer Batavia (1908–1942): Awal
Turisme Modern di Hindia Belanda, Sunjayadi (2007) explains that the
term “tourism” began to be used and became popular in the Western
world in the nineteenth century (pp. xv–xvi). Tourism is understood as a

E. I. P. Lestari • T. W. Mudaryanti • R. Tuty Nur Mutia Enoch Muas (*)

Department of History, Faculty of Humanities, Universitas Indonesia,
Depok, Indonesia
e-mail: [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]

© The Author(s) 2025 161

M. Budiman, A. Kusno (eds.), Collective Memory, Marginality, and
Spatial Politics in Urban Indonesia.,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-97-4304-9_11
162 E. I. P. LESTARI ET AL.

journey away from home over a relatively short time, and the money spent
on tourism destinations emanates from home, not from the visiting loca-
tion. The concept of tourism is divided into two categories, namely, pre-
modern (colonial) and modern. Forms of premodern tourism can be seen
in the journey patterns in Java pre-twentieth century by priests, merchants,
clerks, and explorers, such as Junghuhn, a Dutch botanist who traveled to
explore unspoiled places. Modern tourism, however, involves guidebooks,
attractions, accommodation facilities, transportation, and the presence of
tourist groups with prearranged activities.
James Spillane, in his book entitled Indonesian Tourism: Economic
Strategy and Engineering Culture (1994), states that it is critical to con-
sider five important elements when planning and developing a tourist des-
tination: (1) attractions because usually tourists are attracted to a
destination because of a particular characteristic; (2) facilities such as res-
taurants, hotels, parks, theaters, and cinemas because these tend to sup-
port the growth of destinations; (3) infrastructure, namely, all construction
both under and above ground; (4) transportation, including complete
information about facilities, terminal locations, local transportation ser-
vices at the destination, etc., all of which must be available before travelers
arrive; and (5) hospitality, which should guarantee the safety and comfort
of the tourists.
Images of tourism in Indonesia during the colonial period depicted
mountains, paddy fields, beaches, or its exoticized inhabitants conduct-
ing their daily activities; this genre of images became known as Mooi
Indie (“the beautiful Dutch East Indies”). Distributed through post-
cards, information about Indonesia spoke to its natural beauty, villages,
and indigenous people’s lives, and paintings of Mooi Indie featured three
basic elements (Trimurti) that are commonly found: paddy fields, moun-
tains, and trees (Burhan, 2008). Mooi Indie’s depiction of Indonesia’s
natural beauty at the time served as a tool for promoting tourism that
later informed the colonial government’s attempts at constructing the
Dutch East Indies as an exotic as well as profitable territory
(Lombard, 2000).
Unconsciously, Mooi Indie became important for Dutch colonialism.
As the dynamic enter of society, villages became significant political bases
at the time. In fact, the Dutch understood sociopolitical landscapes in Java
through the framework of villages (desa) (Onghokham, 2009, p. 164).
It is interesting to note that Mooi Indie illustrates village dynamics,
along with their conflicts and restlessness, in romantic, quiet, peaceful
 11 REPRESENTATION OF MOOI INDIE IN NATURE-BASED TOURISM… 163

frameworks. These beautiful depictions of a colonized country are the

foundational trope of Mooi Indie. The genre is rooted in romanticism, a
school of thought that predominated in Europe during the Dutch colonial
era in the Indies. Through Mooi Indie, European scholars desired to create
an exotic and imaginable East. According to Onghokham (2009), the
Mooi Indie art school preserved and froze these conditions, comprehen-
sively converging with projects of colonialism.
Raden Saleh, famous for his painting of animals locked in combat, cre-
ated some of the early visual manifestations of Mooi Indie; his renowned
painting The Arrest of Prince Dipanegara, in which the prince is depicted
wearing a Middle Eastern outfit, is characteristic. The outfit is a signifier
that Mooi Indie is a form of orientalism with a dimension of international-
ity. The Middle/Near East is the part of Asia that first came into contact
with the Western world, and Indians and Indonesians are often depicted
wearing Middle Eastern clothes (Onghokham, 2009, p. 165).
Along with the development of Bandung came Bandoeng Vooruit, an
organization that aimed to take care of social interests and matters related
to the development of the city of Bandung; originating as a social organi-
zation, Bandoeng Vooruit transformed into a self-sufficient tourism devel-
opment organization for Bandung. In this chapter, we discuss the role of
Bandoeng Vooruit in how modern tourism developed in Bandung in the
early twentieth century. In the process, we will demonstrate that tourism
has been active in Indonesia since the colonial period and was especially so
in the early twentieth century. The purpose of this chapter is to under-
stand the role of Bandoeng Vooruit in the development of tourism in
Bandung, especially modern tourism from 1925 to 1941, as well as to
provide an overview of the history of tourism in Bandung and Indonesia
in general.

The Development of Modern Tourism in Bandung

This research is not the only study of the history of Bandoeng Vooruit in
Indonesia. Anton Solihin wrote a thesis entitled Bandung Vooruit: Lahir
dan Peranannya dalam Pengembangan Kepariwisataan di Bandung dan
Sekitarnya (1925–1942) in which he discusses the history of Bandoeng
Vooruit. What our research adds is that we discuss the transition of tourism
activities in Bandung and the influence of Bandoeng Vooruit in that transi-
tion; we also discuss the promotion of Bandoeng Vooruit through various
media channels. We discuss not only the dynamics of Bandoeng Vooruit
164 E. I. P. LESTARI ET AL.

from its formation but also its eventual role in developing tourism in
Bandung, and we also examine how previous researchers have generally
represented Mooi Indie in tourism (Hardjasaputra, 2002; Reitsma, 1892;
Solihin, 1994; Sunjayadi, 2007).
For this study, our primary sources were the monthly magazine Mooi
Bandoeng, published by Bandoeng Vooruit, and guidebooks (wandelgids);
secondary sources included books, theses, dissertations, and papers dis-
cussing the history of tourism. The books include Reitsma’s Bandoeng:
The Mountain City of Netherlands India, in which she discusses the devel-
opment of Bandung as a mountain city since the nineteenth century;
Hardjasaputra’s Perubahan Sosial di Bandung 1810–1906, which discusses
the social dynamics of the city of Bandung from the nineteenth to the
early twentieth century; and Sunjayadi’s Vereeniging Toeristen Verkeer
Batavia (1908–1942): Awal Turisme Modern di Hindia Belanda deals
with Vereeniging Toeristenverkeer, a tourism association and semi-­
government organization that became a tool for monitoring and organiz-
ing tourism in the Dutch East Indies.
On April 1, 1906, Bandung was accorded status as a municipality, or
gemeente. The rice fields and plantations that initially surrounded the city
began to change in appearance with the expansion of the region to the
north. In the nineteenth century, Bandung was still a small town with a
population of 20,000–50,000 people (Daldjoeni, 1987, p. 41), but the
new designation brought increased economic activity to Bandung, and the
population increased in turn. Additionally, the Dutch East Indies govern-
ment moved the capital from Batavia to Bandung, with its beautiful natu-
ral scenery, which entailed moving government and military institutions to
the new municipality (Kunto, 2008, pp. 68–70), furthering the rapid
development.
Bandung was also chosen to be the new capital city because of its geo-
graphical location: the city is located in the highlands and surrounded by
mountains and was therefore deemed to be perfect for defense. As the
outbreak of World War II approached, the authorities were anxious about
Japanese military maneuvers, and Batavia as a coastal city was much more
vulnerable to attacks. Bandung was also simply considered a healthier
place to live than Batavia.
Bandung, with its beautiful natural scenery, underwent a rapid physical
development that earned it several new epithets such as het Parijs van Java
(Paris of Java), de tuin van Allah (Garden of God), Europa in de Troupen,
and de meest Europese stad van Indie (the most European city in the Indies)
 11 REPRESENTATION OF MOOI INDIE IN NATURE-BASED TOURISM… 165

(Leushuis, 2014, pp. 114–115). For Europeans, the tropical atmosphere

of Bandung was more comfortable than that in Batavia, and it was then
planned that Bandung would be the ideal residential city for colonial, pri-
marily Dutch, society (Leushuis, 2014, p. 117). Europa in de Troupen is a
nickname given by Europeans because of the natural beauty of tropical
Priangan, which is shrouded in the cool air of Europe. Parijs van Java,
Geneve van Java, Montpeiller of Java, and Switzerland van Java are nick-
names for cities in the Priangan Residency region due to their similarity to
the coolness, peace, and beauty of cities in Europe. One of the first travel-
ers to visit the Priangan Residency was Charles Walter Kinloch, who vis-
ited the area around 1852 and was very impressed with his journey
through Jalan Raya Pos.
Kinloch reported that traveling by horse-drawn carriage from Batavia
to Buitenzorg (Bogor) was very fast and that at every 5–7 miles (8–11 km),
horse posts and lodgings were provided as places of rest. When he entered
the Priangan plateau, he had to use buffalo, horses, and gethek because of
the difficult, winding roads, and at one point he had to cross the Citarum
River, but during his journey he greatly admired the natural beauty of the
region. He was met along the way with beautiful rural life, cool and clean
air, a pleasant atmosphere, and natural and enchanting scenery
(Kinloch, 1853).
In 1898, an association was formed in Bandung called De Vereeniging
tot Nut van Bandoeng en Omstreken that consisted of European elites. Its
goal was to develop and construct a beautiful city environment, but the
association was also a venue for discussing the aspirations of Bandung resi-
dents (Leushuis, 2014, p. 119). In the midst of Bandung’s development
as a municipality, the emergence of organizations such as De Vereeniging
tot Nut van Bandoeng en Omstreken, which later became Bandoeng Vooruit,
were striking features of civic life.
By the early twentieth century, the city of Bandung could be accessed
by vehicles such as pedati, delman, and cars. In 1900, the first asphalt was
laid in Bandung at Residenweg (now Jl. Stasiun Timur) and Kerklaan
(now Jl. Perintis Kemerdekaan). The streets within the city were equipped
with lights, and trees were planted by the roadside for shade (Kunto,
2008, p. 71).
In addition to transportation facilities, local accommodations sup-
ported the development of tourism activities in Bandung. In 1933, there
were already 41 hotels and pension in Bandung, with classy hotels such as
the Grand Hotel Homann and the Grand Hotel Preanger located in
166 E. I. P. LESTARI ET AL.

strategic areas such as Bragaweg, Groote Postweg, Naripanweg, and Dago

(Reitsma, 1892, p. 15). In the vicinity of the Oranje Plein, there was a
complex of Lux Vincet retirement houses run by L. W. Huisman (Kunto,
2008, pp. 59–60). There was also accommodation in the areas adjoining
Bandung, such as Pangalengan, where there were five hotels; in Lembang,
where there were two; and in Cimahi, where there were three (Mooi
Bandoeng, December 1933, pp. 95–96). The high demand for tourist
accommodations drove the rapid growth in the hospitality industry in
Bandung in the 1930s.
In 1896, Bandung became the venue for a congress of the suikerplant-
ers from East and Central Java. At that time, Bandung was still a small
town, with a population of only 29,382 in 1896 according to Gids voor
Bandoeng Met Teekeningen van W. O. J. Nieuwenkamp; ethnically, the
population breakdown was Europeans 1134, Chinese 1958, Arab 43, and
indigenous 26,247. To improve services in the new city, Pieter Sijthoff, an
assistant resident of Priangan, took the initiative to establish an association
that would provide facilities for the community and build and improve the
social, educational, and cultural welfare of Bandung and its surrounding
communities.
The idea was realized with the establishment of Vereeniging tot Nut van
Bandoeng en Omstreken (Association for the Welfare of Bandung and
Surrounding People) in 1898 (Kunto, 2008, pp. 70–71). The association
served as a forum to channel the aspirations of Bandung residents and sur-
rounding areas; members of the society included European elites such as
government officials, hotel owners, kweekschool teachers, botanists, busi-
nessmen, and preangerplanters. In detail, the members were the Soesman
family (landlords in Braga and Kebonjati); the Reeman family (landlord
Sukajadi); v.d Bruinkops (landlord Pamayonanan-Cibarengkok); v.d Wijk
(landlord of Kiaracondong); R. A. Kerkhoven (Priangan plantation entre-
preneur); K. A. R. Bosscha (Priangan Plantation entrepreneur); Schenk
(Pasirmalang plantation entrepreneur); Homann (owner of Homann
Hotel); Bogerijen (owner of Maison Bogerijean), and C. A. Hellerman
(shop owner in Braga) (Kunto, 2008).
Pieter Sijthoff, the founder of the association, is believed to have been
the day-to-day administrator, and chairmanship of the association was
entrusted to a Priangan resident, Mr. C. W. Kist. Vereeniging tot Nut van
Bandoeng en Omstreken aimed not only to improve the community’s wel-
fare but also to highlight the problems of infrastructure development and
the physical arrangement of Bandung. From its establishment in 1898
 11 REPRESENTATION OF MOOI INDIE IN NATURE-BASED TOURISM… 167

until Bandung was designated a gemeente, the association was responsible

for significant infrastructure development and improvements such as
repairing roads, installing lights, planting trees by the road, and making
gullies. To support the image of the beauty of Bandung, settlements made
of bamboo cubicles located on the edge of the road were renovated with
permanent walls and guardrails were fitted between the road and yards of
the houses (Kunto, 2008, pp. 74–75).
Regarding education, schools were established ranging from kindergar-
ten (frobel) to Lagere School (elementary school) to a carpentry school
(ambachtscholen). In another initiative, Vereeniging tot Nut van Bandoeng
en Omstreken established an association that was equipped with hearses to
assist with deaths in the community. And in terms of transportation, buf-
falo carts were gradually replaced with horse carriages that were called sado
(dos a dos) (Kunto, 2008, pp. 74–75). Although Vereeniging tot Nut van
Bandoeng en Omstreken was an independent, nongovernmental organiza-
tion, it had a genuine interest in helping the government develop Bandung.
Specifically, the organization promoted tourism in Bandung, in coopera-
tion with the government, using pamphlets and postcards with panoramic
images of the area.
During its development, Vereeniging tot Nut van Bandoeng en
Omstreken changed its name twice. First, around 1906, it was renamed to
Comite tot Behartiging van Bandoeng’s Belangen (Committee for the Care
of the Interests of Bandung City). Then, on February 17, 1925, its name
was officially changed to Bandoeng Vooruit (Bandung Maju—Bandung
Prospers), chaired by S. A. Reitsma (Mooi Bandoeng, November 1936,
p. 65). One of the members of Bandoeng Vooruit was the mayoral of
Bandung, and one of the requirements of membership was that one had
to be an entrepreneur, and therefore, there were regular negotiations
between the two sides in the building lobbies.
Bandoeng Vooruit, with the status of a private organization, focused on
developing and promoting tourism in Bandung. It was established for the
benefit of Bandung and surrounding areas, including its tourism. In carry-
ing out its activities, this organization cooperated with the government of
Bandung (Gemeente Bandung) and promoted tourism to the area through
pamphlets and postcards with panoramic images of Bandung.
Bandoeng Vooruit opened its first office in 1933 at Oude Hospitaalweg
16, and the editorial and administrative sections were on Landraadweg 3.
In later years, the office of Bandoeng Vooruit moved several times before
finally settling on Jalan Naripan from April 1938 to 1941. All office
168 E. I. P. LESTARI ET AL.

activities were moved to Jl. Naripan (Mooi Bandoeng, January 1936,

pp. 85–86). Initially, the administrative and advertising departments were
in different locations, and the office was moved to Jl. Naripan partly to
unite administrative and advertising affairs and partly because increasing
numbers of members needed tourism information. Throughout its devel-
opment, the members of Bandoeng Vooruit were not Europeans only; in
1939, there were Chinese members and 22 members who were indige-
nous (Jaarverslag, 1939, p. 13).
The Bandoeng Vooruit annual membership system was divided into two
categories: individual and institutional, NLG 6 for individual members
and NLG 10 for institutions or associations. Members received the Mooi
Bandoeng magazine and an annual entrance ticket to the highways to
Tangkuban Prahu and Papandayan, which were managed using a toll sys-
tem. In addition to membership funds, Bandoeng Vooruit earned money
from regular donors (Mooi Bandoeng, No.12, Jaargang 9, December
1941). Bandoeng Vooruit’s had three important mandates as a tourism
development organization in Bandung: first, to explore and develop the
potential of tourism in Bandung and surrounding areas; second, to orga-
nize and beautify Bandung as a tourist destination city; and third, to attract
and promote Bandung as Parijs van Java and promote its neighboring
cities (Kunto, 1986, pp. 234–235).
This organization’s activities can be understood in two parts. First, it
conducted social activities focused on the development and physical
arrangement of Bandung. Second, along with the change in its direction
and objectives to develop tourism in Bandung, its activities evolved to
emphasize the promotion of Bandung and the development of facilities to
support tourism.

Building Infrastructure to Support

Tourism Activities
To facilitate the flow of tourist traffic, Bandoeng Vooruit built roads to
Tangkuban Prahu (1928), to Papandayan volcano (1935), and from Paseh
to Kawah Kamojan (Kunto, 1986, pp. 254, 258–259). In 1935, the
gemeente government provided a subsidy of NLG 1500 for road construc-
tion to Papandayan. Commentaries on the gemeente Bandung subsidy to
Bandoeng Vooruit were published in various newspapers such as De Indische
Courant, De Sumatra Post, Algemeen Handelsblad, and De Tijd.
 11 REPRESENTATION OF MOOI INDIE IN NATURE-BASED TOURISM… 169

Bandoeng Vooruit’s road construction and repair projects did not rely
solely on member contributions. In addition to donations from the
gemeente government, Bandoeng Vooruit also received donations from pri-
vate entrepreneurs, such as Hotel Homann and Hotel Preanger
(Hardjasaputra, 2002, p. 19). As a partner of the gemeente in city plan-
ning, Bandoeng Vooruit also carried out projects such as arranging the
appearance of shops to appeal to European tourists (Kunto, 1986, p. 240).
The organization also built or repaired city facilities such as parks, swim-
ming pools (Cihampelas and Centrum baths), zoos, and lounges. Bandung
Zoo (Bandoengsche Zoological Park) was completed in 1933 as an initiative
of Bandoeng Vooruit, which also contributed to the renovation of the
Societeit Concordia building (1927–1929) and its facilities, such as dance
halls and theater (Hardjasaputra, 2002, pp. 14–15).
Infrastructure development supports tourism activities. Bandung is
located in a basin surrounded by mountains, and the tourist attractions
were dominated by natural attractions in the mountainous areas around
the city, such as Dago, Cisarua, Jompong, and Halimun watervaal (water-
fall); Arcamanik pesanggarahan; waterkrachtwerk Lamadjang; Dago,
Cihampelas, Empang Cipaganti, Situ Cileunca Pangalengan, and Situ
Patenggang Ciwidey baths; Maribaya hot spring, the modern bath at
Centrum, and so on. There are also the Bandoengsch Zoologisch Park, het
Jubileumpark, van den dienst van den mijnbouw museum, and museum
van den post-telegraaf-en telefoondienst.
Frequent tourist sites included Ciwidey and Rancabali in the south of
the city, which required a vehicle rental and a full day’s provision of food
and water (Reitsma, 1892, p. 48). While in the village of Sindanglaya, on
the road to Sumedang, tourists could visit Pesanggrahan Arcamanik and
take in the plains of Bandung. In the village of Sasak, before reaching the
guesthouse, tourists could rent a horse for NLG 2 per person, including a
tip for the horse handler (Reitsma & Hoogland, 1921, p. 38). There was
also the Maribaya tourist park in Lembang, famous for its hot springs,
which became a favorite tourist destination of the Dutch in the 1920s and
1930s (Brahmantyo & Bachtiar, 2009, p. 109).
Bandung also featured entertainment venues such as Societeit Concordia
and Societeit Ons Genoegen and cinemas such as Majestic, Oriental, and
Elita. In Societeit Concordia. There were frequent musical performances,
theater productions, and dance parties. Tourists could watch theatrical
performances, plays, and Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer American Western mov-
ies (Hutagalung & Nugraha, 2008, p. 65).
170 E. I. P. LESTARI ET AL.

City tours conducted with delman, sado, or horse-drawn carriages were

popular with visitors; places of interest included residency buildings in
Cicendo, temples in Chinatown, Kininefabriek, and several city parks. In
addition to the city tour, there was also a Rijsttafel (full meal consisting of
appetizer, main course, and dessert) culinary tour, the first culinary tour-
ism concept in Indonesia, introduced in the early twentieth century
(Rahman, 2016). It was held every Sunday at the Homann Hotel; Preanger
planters were usually customers at this.
Mooi Indie’s colonial romanticism is also manifested in rijstaffel (colo-
nial feast). During the colonial period, the Dutch enjoyed food extrava-
gantly. In fact, they went to hotels to enjoy the feasts that were served
every Sunday. About 30 waiters would serve dozens of dishes from all
cuisines, most of which were Javanese (Onghokham, 2009, p. 170). Such
a culinary ritual could be understood as an expression of power and status.

Toward Organized Tourism

In its function as a tourism development organization, Bandoeng Vooruit
coordinated well-planned tours and regularly published travel plans and
excursions around Bandung in Mooi Bandoeng magazine. For example, on
Sunday February 19, 1939, the organization held an excursion to the
mountains of Tangkuban Prahu and Situ Lembang. The publication of
excursion activities in Mooi Bandoeng included activity information, entry
fees, registration deadlines, and group departure points.
Excursion activities were usually conducted every Sunday. A sample
tour to Conggeang held on Sunday, November 5, 1939, was followed by
an excursion to Galunggung, and on Sunday, December 10, 1939, an
excursion was organized to Manuk Crater. Members of Bandoeng Vooruit
were charged NLG 4.25. Each excursion usually had a different starting
point; stewards coordinated transportation needs, a car was organized if
the destination was outside or around Bandung, and each excursion activ-
ity was assigned a travel leader.
During the first half of the twentieth century in Bandung, tourism
activities were coordinated through a travel group and displayed charac-
teristics of modern tourism such as tour guides, guidebooks, and orga-
nized transportation, premodern tourism, prevalent in the nineteenth
century, was loose, informal, and carried out on an individual basis. For
instance, a late nineteenth-century annual horse-racing event in Tegalega
once attracted visitors to Bandung, and visitors were not only Europeans
 11 REPRESENTATION OF MOOI INDIE IN NATURE-BASED TOURISM… 171

but also indigenous and other groups; notably, however, visitors came
using various means of personal transportation because there were no
coordinated accommodations or transportation, and there were no tourist
guidebooks (Kunto, 1986, p. 285). According to Robert Cribb in
International Tourism in Java 1900–1930 (1995, p. 193), the use of
guidebooks and the presence of tourist groups marked modern tourism in
the Indies, which began around the early twentieth century, and we also
cite this period as the beginning of modern tourism in Bandung. In line
with Robert Cribb’s terminology, it can be argued that premodern tour-
ism in the nineteenth century was characterized by the absence of an orga-
nization that managed various travel needs; travel was still random, tourists
were not organized into groups, and there was no central provider of
information for the tourists. In terms of nature, tourism was neither pro-
moted nor was information contained in tourist guidebooks.
At the beginning of the twentieth century, increasing numbers of tour-
ists began visiting Bandung for recreation and nature; although the appeal
of horse racing did not fade, nature tourism became the activity of choice
among tourists in Bandung. A previous mayor of Apeldoorn, Mr. Dr.
W. Roosmale Nepveu, who visited Bandung in 1936, expressed his eager-
ness to see Bandung’s impressive natural beauty, particularly its beautiful
urban parks and wide city streets (Mooi Bandoeng, November 1936,
pp. 65–66). Mr. Roosmale’s interest in Bandung shows the appeal of
Bandung as a tourist attraction for those interested in nature. The above
highlights how the pattern of tourism activities in Bandung shifted from
the nineteenth to twentieth centuries to bring about modern Bandung
tourism with the efforts of Bandoeng Vooruit.

Bandoeng Vooruit: From Tourism Promotion

to City Arrangement

Once the modern era of tourism in Bandung began, local and regional
attractions were promoted using printing posters, flyers, brochures, and
travel guidebooks as well as via presentations at the annual exhibition
(Jaarbeurs), and Bandoeng Vooruit had a booth at the exhibition. They
also published a maanblad (monthly magazine) called Mooi Bandoeng in
1933 that contained key information for both domestic and foreign tour-
ists, and the magazine became a highly effective means of disseminating
information and promoting the region.
172 E. I. P. LESTARI ET AL.

The year 1933 was also important for Bandoeng Vooruit because it was
the year of a merger between Bandoeng Vooruit and Vereeniging tot
Bevordering van het Vreemdelingen Verkeer (Society for the Promotion of
the Tourist Office). The merger substantially increased Bandoeng Vooruit’s
membership and fees from the previous year.
Bandoeng Vooruit used Mooi Bandoeng to encourage locals to become
members and actively participate in developing Bandung into a metropolis
(Mooi Bandoeng, November 1936, pp. 65–66). As noted earlier, member-
ship included toll tickets on private roads, special discounts for various
excursions, and discounts on Bandoeng Vooruit guidebooks. By the end of
September 1936, the organization had 931 members (Kunto, 1986,
pp. 234–235).
To provide more convenient access to tourism information, Bandoeng
Vooruit built a tourist information center in the city center that provided
visitors with tourist information and trained tour guides (Mooi Bandoeng,
February 1934, pp. 114–116). However, Bandoeng Vooruit promoted the
city through mass and certain promotional media. Members of the board
also personally accompanied the visits of important people such as Sri
Mangkunegoro VII from Surakarta in 1935 (Kunto, 1986, p. 247). In
addition, Sunan Paku Buwono X from Surakarta visited Tangkuban Prahu
Crater (Kunto, 2008, p. 289); the great king of Thailand, Rama V, visited
Curug Dago in 1902; and his grandson, Rama VII, visited Bandung in
1929 (Brahmantyo & Bachtiar, 2009, p. 114).
Bandoeng Vooruit also prepared an annual tourist calendar of regular
Jaarbeurs (exhibitions/exchanges) and horse racing in the Tegalega field,
and both programs were strong in attracting visitors to Bandung (Kunto,
1986, pp. 248–249). In addition, Bandoeng Vooruit organized recre-
ational tours in Bandung. The key attractions in Bandung and its sur-
roundings were: (1) large hotels with a wide choice of restaurants; (2)
first-class cinemas; (3) a Malabar radio station; (4) a geological museum
and a postal museum; (5) Technische Hoogeschool te Bandoeng and luxury
gardens; (6) Tangkuban Prahu and Papandayan; (7) airports; (8) water-
falls and mountain lakes; (9) zoos and hydroelectric stations; and (10) six
swimming pools and markets (Kunto, 1986, p. 236). From the above
division, it appears that Bandoeng Vooruit tried to classify recreation desti-
nations in Bandung according to type of tourist activity. Some tours
involved outdoor activities. Considering the geographical advantage, cli-
mate, and natural panorama of Bandung and its surroundings, activities
involving nature became the mainstay of tourism in Bandung.
 11 REPRESENTATION OF MOOI INDIE IN NATURE-BASED TOURISM… 173

Bandoeng Vooruit’s efforts to boost tourism played a significant role in

developing the city and the surrounding region. First, the association
improved the physical arrangement of Bandung City, and second, the
group was instrumental in disseminating information about Bandung and
its tourism potential. The role of the organization in facilitating tourist
traffic flow was indicated by road development activities, such as traveling
by car to Tangkuban Prahu (1928) and Papandayan (1935).
In line with this phenomenon, the development of tourism in Bandung
cannot be separated from the development of Bandung itself as a city in
the early twentieth century following its designation as a gemeente in 1906.
As the population increased, especially the Europeans who had been in
Bandung since the late nineteenth century, the Bandung municipal gov-
ernment wanted to take care of the Europeans’ various interests, and
efforts to meet those needs ultimately contributed greatly to the develop-
ment of urban tourism in Bandung.

Conclusion
In the course of its history, tourism activities in Bandung experienced a
shift from premodern to modern times that began with the emergence of
Bandoeng Vooruit, an organization that introduced and promoted the
natural beauty of Bandung through pamphlets and brochures as well as
through organized tourism activities in Bandung. According to Robert
Cribb, modern tourism in the Indies began around the early twentieth
century, and we present the history of tourism in Bandung, Indonesia as
an example, using early twentieth-century inventions such as guidebooks
and tourist groups to demarcate modern from premodern tourism.
Premodern tourism in Bandung involved tourists from foreign coun-
tries and the archipelago for the annual horse race, but people arrived
independently and arranged their own travel, lodgings, and entertainment
for their stays. Bandoeng Vooruit brought the advent of modern tourism,
with organized travel, tourist attractions, and accommodations; indeed,
horse-racing events became parts of organized tourism.
Bandoeng Vooruit also supported the greater development of Bandung
beyond tourism by supporting the local infrastructure for tourism activi-
ties. Bandoeng Vooruit built roads to Tangkuban Prahu and Papandayan
and then from Paseh to Kamojan Crater and even took the initiative to
build Bandung Zoo.
174 E. I. P. LESTARI ET AL.

The emergence of tourism development organizations such as Bandoeng

Vooruit led to changes in the pattern of tourism activities in Bandung that
advanced local tourism activities from premodern to modern, and
Bandoeng Vooruit’s early promotional efforts highlight the pristine natural
beauty of Bandung. Coming full circle, we can say Mooi Indie’s contribu-
tion to tourism in the form of celebrating the beauties of Indonesia is
equally undeniable in the form of the Mooi Indie advertisement “Wonderful
Indonesia—Feeling Is Believing” (2011).

Acknowledgments This work was supported by Universitas Indonesia’s Research

Grant (PITTA 2017) managed by DRPM UI (Grant Number: NKB-505/UN2.
R3.1/HKP.05.00/2017). This chapter was copyedited by ENAGO.

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 CHAPTER 12

The 2017 Jakarta Gubernatorial Election:

The Production of Post-Truth
and the Islamic, Urban, Middle-Class
Identity

Gigay Citta Acikgenc and Herdito Sandi Pratama

Introduction
In years of political turmoil, the face of a city undergoes changes. With a
battle of discourses that brought forth changes to the city’s aspiration and
image, Jakarta’s 2017 gubernatorial election is an object worthy of
research. At the time, the incumbent governor Basuki Tjahaja Purnama
(Ahok) endured fierce political battles in his race for reelection, faced
accusations of religious blasphemy, and ended up serving a two-year prison
sentence. In a forum in 2016, Ahok spoke about issue of SARA (ethnic,
religious, race, and intergroup sentiments) that had occurred during his
time running as a candidate in the Bangka Belitung gubernatorial election;
he also asked his supporters to remain calm and not get carried away by

G. C. Acikgenc • H. S. Pratama (*)

Department of Philosophy, Faculty of Humanities, Universitas Indonesia,
Depok, Indonesia
e-mail: [email protected]; [email protected]

© The Author(s) 2025 177

M. Budiman, A. Kusno (eds.), Collective Memory, Marginality, and
Spatial Politics in Urban Indonesia.,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-97-4304-9_12
178 G. C. ACIKGENC AND H. S. PRATAMA

the discourses of hatred hiding under the guise of religion. In his state-
ment, Ahok asked the people to remain critical and refuse to be provoked
by certain interpretations of Surah Al-Maidah, verse 51, which prohibits
Muslims from befriending Jews and Christians. In addition to research-­
worthy issues pertaining to law, it is interesting to observe the massive
movement that emerged right after Ahok’s speech went viral in the social
media and how the movement polarized Indonesian society.
The unyielding waves of movements against Ahok framed him as an
enemy who blasphemed Islam, and these movements, which remained
influential until the 2019 general and presidential elections, highlighted
the new form of politics based on the ambiguity between rationality and
testimonies and intuition. This highlighting is made most effective through
social media, utilizing the infrastructures of information technology to
achieve a strong persuasive effect in constructing the public’s discourse
and attitude.
Social media and information technology have unleashed a prolifera-
tion of opinions and testimonies that have devalued objectivity and ratio-
nality, which previously were respected as the pillars of knowledge.
Knowledge transmitted via social media rejects the mainstream epistemo-
logical tradition of senses and reason as far superior sources of knowledge
to testimonies and intuition. Information technology has allowed for tes-
timonies to proliferate and indeed to transcend the objectivity of senses
and the validity of reason. People now produce and process knowledge
based on testimonies that spread like wildfire in digital spaces, manifesting
a post-truth era in which objectivity is less relevant than persuasiveness.
In the field of epistemology, or the philosophical study of knowledge,
the term “testimony” refers to others’ formal or informal written or verbal
statements, but modern epistemology does not consider testimony a pri-
mary source of information, as it does memory, reasoning, and perception
(Goldman, 1999). Moreover, modern epistemology uses an individual
approach to examine humans’ sources of knowledge, which, in turn, iso-
lates individuals from external factors such as other “knowers” and social
institutions. Thus, in response to the inadequacy of theoretical tools in
modern epistemology, contemporary thinkers have developed “social
epistemology” as an extension of epistemology (Goldman &
Whitcomb, 2011).
The rapid and ongoing developments in ICTs in the twenty-first cen-
tury, such as smartphones and digital applications, have made it easier than
ever to acquire information and knowledge. According to Floridi (2014),
 12 THE 2017 JAKARTA GUBERNATORIAL ELECTION: THE PRODUCTION… 179

electronic devices not only mediate communication with one another but
help us shop, work, find entertainment, and so on. These devices and the
expansion of ICTs have also transformed the way we source our knowl-
edge: we now consider that we know what we learn from search engines,
social media feeds, and chat rooms.
Knowledge acquisition that involves more than one knower is not a
central part of the modern epistemology discourse. Instead, modern epis-
temology focuses more on memories, intuitions, reasoning, and sensory
perception as the primary sources of knowledge (Goldman, 1999) and
considers testimony a secondary source. Meanwhile, under the social epis-
temology discipline, research focuses on the social aspect of knowledge.
According to the contemporary epistemological approach, knowledge is
no longer viewed from an individualistic perspective; the relationship
between knowledge and social aspects is now the object of study: knowl-
edge gained from other people, how gained knowledge is justified, the
reliability of testimonies, and so on. The infrastructure of ICTs ensures
that our sources of knowledge are not limited to our individual sensory
perceptions or reasoning faculties. The virtual connectivity between indi-
viduals facilitated by the IT infrastructure grants us knowledge based on
what others knew first.
Regarding the latter point, this reliability is still in question. In today’s
digital age, search engine and social medial algorithms have directed what
information we receive and, in turn, disseminate on a daily basis, and our
dependence on the testimonies of others through the internet has fostered
the dissemination of what has been called fake news, which has particularly
affected the political arena. For example, the article by Lim (2017) titled
“Freedom to Hate: Social Media, Algorithmic Enclaves, and the Rise of
Tribal Nationalism in Indonesia” focused on the 2017 regional head elec-
tion (pilkada) in the DKI Jakarta area with the aim of showing how politi-
cal activities in social media produced binary polarization between the
supporters of each candidate and ultimately influenced the quality of
information received by grassroots voters. In this context, we discuss the
role of testimony as a source of knowledge by analyzing the post-truth
politics of the 2017 Jakarta gubernatorial election. In this chapter, we
discuss the role of testimony in our knowledge acquisition and determine
its unintended consequences. To this end, we use an analytical approach
to sketch the theoretical description of knowledge and testimony and to
contextualize the problem using a case study.
180 G. C. ACIKGENC AND H. S. PRATAMA

Testimony and Knowledge and Post-Truth Era

In an everyday sense, we see the term “testimony” used in the realm of law
to describe witness testimony in a court. The word “testimony” is also
commonly used in the context of journalism when referring to the pres-
ence of verbal evidence in a news report, and we use “testimony” to refer
to a personal assessment of a product someone has tried before. For this
study, however, we define “testimony” as an epistemic source in which
“hearers” acquire information from either the spoken or written words of
others (Lackey, 2008).
Gelfert (2014) divided testimony into three categories: (1) mundane;
(2) factual; and (3) aesthetic. Mundane testimony consists of personal
information such as names, occupations, ages, and addresses; such descrip-
tions can usually be learned without having to experience them. For exam-
ple, to verify someone’s identify, we simply ask for identification such as a
birth certificate or driver’s license. In general, this type of testimony does
not create a significant epistemological problem because it only requires
common sense and trust.
Factual testimony, however, refers to information received from some-
one with particular knowledge about a topic that we want to learn, for
instance, a meteorologist delivering tomorrow’s weather forecast or a cus-
tomer service representative discussing one’s electric bill. In general, we
tend to accept this type of testimony “as is” because we have no reason not
to believe it. Finally, aesthetic testimony refers to the information in, for
example, film or book reviews that express an individual’s personal tastes,
and expertise can factor into the value of such testimony, such as reviews
from historians who appreciate a work of art and discuss its style, tech-
nique, and composition, all of which might be unfamiliar to laymen.
It is important to note that Gelfert’s (2014) division of testimony is
fairly wide in scope and assumes that each type of testimony is distinct,
when in reality, the three types can overlap and intersect. The division is
nevertheless still useful as an overview of testimony, which is missing from
the popular definition, and it emphasizes the importance of the role of
testimony in our daily lives.
Scholars have often questioned the validity of aesthetic testimony as a
source of knowledge, and therefore, we need to clarify the meaning of
knowledge in order to unravel this misconception. In this case, it is easier
to focus on what is not knowledge. For instance, knowledge is not merely
an opinion. According to Gelfert (2014), knowledge should be more
 12 THE 2017 JAKARTA GUBERNATORIAL ELECTION: THE PRODUCTION… 181

stable than opinion, which tends to be more volatile; furthermore, opin-

ions are often tied to individuals’ psychological states, as seen in political
commentaries on social issues. These findings suggest that opinion cannot
be equated with knowledge, whereas “opinion” and “testimony” can be
used interchangeably because both aspects are distributed by at least two
people who depend on one another for information.
The knowledge/belief distinction, which is related to objectivity, is also
a popular assumption that is not entirely accurate. Based on epistemology,
knowledge is defined as a justified true belief, where a belief is an opinion,
assertion, or proposition based on specific reasons or justifications. In con-
trast to beliefs, truth is based on reality, although this does not preclude
beliefs from being true.
This explanation, however, does not align with the popular understand-
ing of knowledge, which includes objective facts. The explanation above is
a theoretical means of clarifying the common misinterpretations of the
terms “testimony” and “knowledge.” Based on the definition of knowl-
edge as a belief, which is something true that can be justified, we can
conclude that truth becomes an important element in a philosophical
investigation of knowledge. The true-or-false value of a belief is deter-
mined through claims that serve to justify whether someone truly has reli-
able knowledge. The next explanation will cover how information
technology blurs the justification process and value of truth from an asser-
tion, proposition, or opinion and leads to unwanted consequences.
In 2016, Oxford Dictionary’s word of the year was “post-truth,” which
the dictionary defined as when objective truth is less influential in shaping
public opinion than emotive-persuasion and personal beliefs (Wang,
2016). The prefix “post-” is not interpreted as “after” but rather states
that the word that follows (truth) is now irrelevant. The term was selected
because searches for it had increased by 2000% compared with the previ-
ous year (Wang, 2016).
Although it extends to the context of political constellation and public
opinion, which are widely developed and mediated by information tech-
nology, post-truth has long been understood as a condition whereby
“alternative facts” change “actual facts.” According to McIntyre (2015),
post-truth is practiced as ideological supremacy to persuade others to
believe something by giving up actual evidence. Along with this under-
standing, according to McIntyre, post-truth did not begin in 2016 but
simply became a much larger phenomenon more recently. Post-truth also
182 G. C. ACIKGENC AND H. S. PRATAMA

encompasses the cognitive bias whereby individuals believe that their con-
clusions are based on adequate reasoning even when they are not.
With the mediation and power of information technology, especially
social media, post-truth truths are more real. Anyone can find someone
online who agrees with them no matter their opinion, and by only read-
ing, engaging with, and sharing these opinions with like-minded others,
people can create a bubble of content within which they never hear any-
thing they do not want to hear whether it is objectively true or not. As a
result, people are not forced to question their own beliefs, and armed with
preferences, social media provides such a large space to serve this type of
information exchange that it becomes difficult to change people’s posi-
tions. Polarization occurs easily because it is not based on actual evidence,
and social conflicts arise that can scour trust from society (Rothstein,
2005). The culture that developed in the post-truth era was driven by
social media. A. C. Grayling contended that strong opinions can quell
evidence, and in this era, what is believed is more valuable than fact. Post-­
truth culture is narcissistic and values our opinions as though we all are
celebrities (in Coughlan, 2017).
The diametric position in opinions that develop on the internet is easily
transformed into an interpersonal feud among groups. According to
Grayling, online culture is unable to distinguish between fact and fiction.
The process that occurs in cyberspace has the potential to damage public
conversation and democracy (Coughlan, 2017).
In the post-truth era, fact and fiction can be neglected and discarded. If
previously it was relatively easy to fight truth with lies, it is now no longer
even possible to identify a lie: Simona Modreanu illustrates how we now
use euphemisms such as “challenged ethically” and “truth is temporarily
unavailable” that blur truth and lies, honesty and dishonesty, fiction and
nonfiction, and reality and hoax (Modreanu, 2017).
Modreanu (2017) suggests that the motive of post-truth phenomena
derives from the post-modern trend that rejects a single truth narrative in
the face of the influence of many public figures, relativism, community
setbacks, and narcissism. Furthermore, the nature of the post-truth era
combined with cultural indifference resulted in a fragile society full of
suspicion (Modreanu, 2017). Individuals’ today struggle to understand
the breadth of useless knowledge accumulating at an incredible rate, and
the future is increasingly unpredictable (Modreanu, 2017). Such condi-
tions produce cognitive dissonance, which, to overcome, requires society
to reinstate belief and intuition (Modreanu, 2017). Confidence and
 12 THE 2017 JAKARTA GUBERNATORIAL ELECTION: THE PRODUCTION… 183

intuition become the preferential basis of society in dealing with a world

situation that cannot be controlled because of the nature of uncertainty. It
is precisely in this matter of belief and intuition that epistemic and social
problems arise and are accentuated.
Miller and Record (2013) explained that internet search engines such
as Google create significant challenges for epistemic research on knowl-
edge acquisition because the search engine algorithms tend to present
incomplete or biased results based on one’s search history. Findings based
on what one has already searched for have a significant impact on one’s
impression that a particular belief is the “truth,” after which believers
become resistant to any contradictory information.
The formation of belief based on search engine algorithms has made
the justification process more difficult than what epistemology experts
could have imagined. Miller and Record (2013) noted that this phenom-
enon is not unique, especially in terms of its epistemic characteristics. The
filter bubble is equivalent to socializing with people who possess the same
mindset, including those who consume information from sources that
present a particular political agenda or narrow-minded perspective.
However, Pariser (cited in Miller and Record (2013)) stated that people
who access search engine technology do not choose to be in a particular
social group. For example, when I read/share liberal-oriented political
sources, the news that my conservative friends share is no longer visible on
the homepage of my Facebook account.
According to Miller and Record (2013), search engine algorithms aim
to drive users’ attention to material they should find engaging, an innova-
tion in the field of information technology. However, the algorithms have
the potential of channeling very different material to two people who in
theory should be similar and potentially driving them further apart with
each online engagement.
Information exposure managed by search engine algorithms can indi-
rectly isolate social media users from diverse viewpoints about a particular
topic. In this case, similar algorithms are also used by social media plat-
forms, such as Facebook. According to Lim (2017), information received
by Facebook users in Indonesia is isolated by the algorithm and con-
sciously filtered based on the preferences of their Facebook “friends.” In
Indonesia, Facebook users tend to have an extensive network of friends
and having more than 1000 “friends” is the norm. In the 2017 Jakarta
gubernatorial election, Facebook users (ranging from those in the pro-­
Ahok party to those in the anti-Ahok party) were extremely active. For
184 G. C. ACIKGENC AND H. S. PRATAMA

example, some users “unfollowed” friends who did not share their politi-
cal views. Such information isolation was intensified through private
instant messenger services, such as WhatsApp, LINE, and Blackberry
Messenger.
The dynamics that shape a group of individuals facilitated by the exis-
tence of information filtering algorithms attempt to create an online iden-
tity that supports the existing belief. The existence of an algorithm is not
a factor allowing the formation to exist. Social media and algorithms work
together to choose, sort, and establish a hierarchy over someone else,
information shared by them, as well as their political preferences (Lim,
2017). In these groups, interactions are an exchange of opinions preceded
by sentiment and positively correlated with the perspective that becomes
the beginning of the formation of these online groups. This kind of for-
mation on social media that produces fake news is no longer known as
news whose validity needs to be investigated.
Lim (2017) noted that branding has become an important element of
political campaign strategies, as seen in the social media campaigns of the
candidates in the 2017 Jakarta gubernatorial election. In this case, brand-
ing refers to building an emotional connection between the products (the
gubernatorial candidates) and voters. For example, in the first round,
Ahok’s social media team focused on spreading positive images of Ahok as
clean, honest, and free of corruption. Meanwhile, Yudhoyono’s social
media team promoted his youthful and religious side, whereas Baswedan’s
social media team promoted their candidate as polite and friendly.
Each social media team worked to promote the respective programs
that they offered. However, the “branding” of each candidate was the
main priority, not their programs and public policies. Moreover, although
it was not openly admitted, the social media team of each candidate used
“buzzers” and “netizens” on Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram, all of
whom influenced a significant number of followers. Consequently, the dis-
course on social media among the voters was insubstantial due to the exis-
tence of people who were paid to keep targeting the psychological level of
voters using “branding.”
This type of social media strategy also impacted the topics discussed via
private instant messaging services, which, in turn, were carried into the
public sphere. In some cases, the “information” that was perceived, for-
warded, and discussed by the voters included little to no objective facts
about public policies on health, education, and the environment.
 12 THE 2017 JAKARTA GUBERNATORIAL ELECTION: THE PRODUCTION… 185

Discussion
Electoral politics in Indonesia is a prime example of when the value of
truth is questionable; instead, the influence of information from people on
social media continues to increase. Truth has been appreciated as a value
throughout philosophical discourse. Lee (2015) posits that in the dialog
written by Plato, Socrates asked “What is righteousness?” In his writing,
Socrates asked Euthypro why punishing his father for murder was the
right thing to do. Socrates expressed that Euthypro could not actu-
ally explained convincingly why punishing his own father was the right
thing to do. For Socrates, the pursuit of truth of what we believe is some-
thing that is true. Furthermore, finding truth through proven evidence is
one of the many missions of science.
According to Socrates, the greatest enemy of truth is false knowledge
or, as McIntyre (2015) stated, when we claim that we know something
based on contradictive evidence (or no evidence at all). This is when the
pursuit of truth ends. However, if we remain skeptical, it is possible to
determine if such a claim is true. If we do not know something, we can try
to learn more. If we do not believe in a fact, others may try to convince us
to believe in it. However, if we are willfully ignorant of the truth of an
opinion, event, or belief because we are unwilling to change our existing
belief, we no longer appreciate truth as a value that needs to be upheld to
acquire knowledge.
The value of truth is not in the obsession to discover the absolute truth
but in the process of justifying the belief and transforming it into reliable
knowledge. In the context of the 2017 Jakarta gubernatorial election, this
process was destroyed by the campaign strategies that only focused on
“packaging” the candidates, instead of highlighting their respective poli-
cies. Therefore, grassroots voters were unable to receive accurate informa-
tion about the competency of each candidate. Such a scenario is not
beneficial to a healthy democratic system. Moreover, the internet’s infor-
mation flow system indirectly gives space to biased information acquired
by voters. Voters who do not receive and exchange verified information
are prone to becoming irrational voters. This means that their decisions
are not based on reasonable considerations, such as voting for a political
candidate based on religious and ethnic similarities rather than their back-
ground, which more clearly articulates their capacity as a political leader
and their ability to positively impact the people.
186 G. C. ACIKGENC AND H. S. PRATAMA

As shown in the case of Ahok, Indonesia provides a context where there

is a thin line between rationality and intuition. In fact, the contrary posi-
tion between the two is Western thinkers’ constructed form of artificial
separation. In behavioral economics, Kahneman (2011) discovered that
an individual’s real decisions are often motivated by systematic biases.
Moreover, the proliferation of opinions, information, and testimonies in
digital spaces prompts knowledge production through ways that are nei-
ther reason-based nor entirely intuition-based. The dynamics between
rationality and intuition result in a synthetical basis of knowledge and
movements. Such a proposition can be clearly identified in the case of a
viral, edited video of Ahok’s speech. On the one hand, people’s reaction
was triggered by the rising intuition of primordial religiosity, which
resulted in antipathy toward the speech. On the other hand, there was a
rational basis underlying such a reaction, which can be discovered from
judgments on the facts surrounding the video clip. Rationality and intu-
ition fuse together and result in what could be deemed as essentialization,
particularly the essentialization of Islamic identity.
Interestingly, such essentialization undergoes a method of “resistance,”
a mechanism of creating a mutual enemy that eventually leads to the cre-
ation of an ideological position. The video of Ahok’s speech prompted the
emergence of a form of resistance, which positioned Ahok and his every
attribute (ethnic, religion, and political choices) as “the enemy.” Such
resistance was reinforced by the social media, which subsequently ampli-
fied the discourse and formed the polarization of “Us versus Them.” Ahok
and all of his attributes are “them,” and such construction simultaneously
produces the narrative of “us.” The method of resistance then resulted in
an essence of Islamic identity that mobilized numerous movements, such
as 212. Fixing one’s identity amid such artificial polarization is also
strengthened through other narratives, such as the term “pribumi” con-
veyed by Anies Baswedan as Ahok’s rival in the election.
As a capital city and destination for urban citizens, Jakarta embodies a
dynamic, heterogeneous society. Occurrences in the city signify the space-­
consuming coexistence between progress and the primordial roots that
migrants bring from their hometowns. In the middle of such an urban
wave, Jakarta’s “original” group of people (Betawi) is a reflection of a
society that was never conceived before. Therefore, Jakarta as either a city
or an idea is an undefined project. Urban slums and real estate are con-
joined and coexist in a fluid structure assembled by the rise of the middle
class. Whichever (most commonly economic) definition that one attaches
 12 THE 2017 JAKARTA GUBERNATORIAL ELECTION: THE PRODUCTION… 187

to the middle class, Jakarta has become a silent battlefield between

primordial-­conservative ideas from the past and their modern-progressive
counterpart and its orientation to the future. In this temporarily unde-
fined situation, Jakarta is an active reflection of the country’s politics.
Government and business centers merge together within an active coexis-
tence and form images of a nation-state.
The rise of the middle class is frequently caused by wider access to the
economy and education. In major cities, such emergence never has a sin-
gle facade. The middle class has the agency to transform the image and
memory of a nation-state, but they also depend on the political direction
of the nation-state itself. Referring to Goenawan Mohamad, Budiman
(2011) argued that the middle class has the desire to generate progress
and coherently comply with the desired changes. In other words, the class
knows no tension between hopes of progress and the romanticism of
the past.
The multiple façades of the middle class can be commonly found in
major cities, such as Jakarta. During the authoritarian New Order regime,
politics and SARA (ethnic, religion, race, and intergroup) sentiments were
not allowed. Therefore, the middle class could not articulate identity
related to SARA. Intriguingly, after the fall of the New Order, as the soci-
ety marched toward political openness, religious identity politics were
articulated. The face of Jakarta has changed through expressions of reli-
gious aspiration. The regulations of satellite cities are more open to these
religious aspirations. In public streets of Jakarta, religious activities emerge,
religious mass organizations strengthen, and religious preaching pene-
trates city spaces, universities, schools, government institutions, and pri-
vate institutions. It seems that reformation leaves the city with a strong
urgency of religious aspiration that is barely limited by the awareness of
modernity.
Occurrences during Jakarta’s 2017 gubernatorial election, particularly
what happened in the case of Ahok, constitute a culmination point that
successfully allows the city’s collective religious aspiration to penetrate the
aforementioned bare limit of modernity. If previously there was a vision of
modernity that prevented political and massive expressions of religious
aspirations, the case of Ahok brought the urban middle class beyond
modernity’s limit, and this articulates the politics of a city that is sectarian,
religious, and oppositional to modernity’s idea of progress.
Fusing together the development of social media and its characteristics,
these discourses resulted in a compound with a high potential for
188 G. C. ACIKGENC AND H. S. PRATAMA

explosion. Reducing relationships to binary logic such as friend/unfriend

and like/dislike is common on social media platforms but is polarizing,
and once people choose sides, they primordially and religiously essential-
ize their others through a method of resistance, and this constructed Ahok
as a target. Through rejecting Ahok and labeling him a blasphemer (in
some cases, the blasphemer) of religion, a self-other wave of separation
emerged. With the existence of Ahok as the other, the idea of a religious
“us” was formed.
Waves of rejection, hashtag wars, and digital mobilization then allowed
the rise of on-the-street movements, united groups, and produced an
urban middle class that articulated Islamic identity, and this articulation
was then quickly absorbed as a political modality that was used to support
a candidate who later emerged as the victor of the gubernatorial election,
and this process of essentialization was rapid, massive, and long-standing.
At the time of the 2019 presidential election, this middle-class expression
and articulation of Islamic identity was then transformed into electoral
benefits. Although the identity of the urban middle class is never a singular
aspect, this chapter has shown how the production of an Islamic, urban,
upper-middle-class identity was constructed through the facilitating
aspects of post-truth and social media in the context of Ahok’s speech. In
this context, the line between knowledge and testimony or rationality and
intuition faded away. The opposing sides of the spectrum became inter-
twined, and this resulted in particular symptoms of identity.
Apart from the research findings that indicate that humans are not as
rational as ancient Greek philosophers had imagined, rationality is still a
distinctive feature of humans in general. However, this feature ceases to
function if we are unable to identify the differences between truth and
falsehood. Frankfurt (2006) wrote that appreciation of the value of truth
can be seen from how far rationality is practiced. Rationality, in this case,
is also related to the factuality of one’s opinion or a proposition that
“sculpts” one’s belief. Thus, factuality is an important aspect whereby
truth becomes an instrument for constructing a conducive and harmoni-
ous society.
Finally, the role of testimony as a source of knowledge shows how truth
can become a value that is believed by every member of a community. This
is especially important given that truth can also influence social interac-
tions among like-minded individuals. However, there is also the devalua-
tion of truth or “post-truth” to consider, when the justification process is
no longer reliable. Even mass media institutions cannot avoid the
 12 THE 2017 JAKARTA GUBERNATORIAL ELECTION: THE PRODUCTION… 189

production and dissemination of false information that is ultimately con-

sumed by the public. As a result, the gap between truth and falsehood
continues to widen, especially in terms of the information relayed through
mass media and social media platforms. In the era of information technol-
ogy, mass media has played a role in creating the post-truth world, partly
making rationality and factuality, supposedly the main principles of mass
media, nearly universally obsolete. The lack of processes for verifying news
also contributes to mass media’s dysfunction as one of the important ele-
ments for realizing a democratic society.

Conclusion
Advancements in ICT have changed how we acquire information and
knowledge. More specifically, the dependence on other people to acquire
knowledge has become the norm. Such dependence is not directly noticed
by the public because communication between two or more people is not
considered a method of acquiring knowledge. In these situations, distinc-
tions between facts and opinions and between belief and knowledge can
lead to misconceptions about the role of testimony as a source of knowl-
edge. Such misconceptions are also fueled by search engine algorithms
that focus on users’ previous search histories.
Therefore, the present study discussed the role of testimony in knowl-
edge acquisition by analyzing the post-truth politics in the 2017 Jakarta
gubernatorial election in the context of search engine and social media
algorithms and the “truths” they drive us to. The validity of testimonies
on social media is now facing a justification process that cannot be relied
upon because of personalized algorithms that filter information based on
search results and internet activity. The validity of testimonies as a source
of knowledge also faces the devaluation of truth as a common value in a
society. This makes the truth of a testimony no longer a common priority
and concern because speed and identity bias precede the values of rational-
ity and factuality.
This chapter has emphasized that the reliability of testimony as a source
of knowledge is doubtful. In this case, through branding strategies and the
promotion of fake news, the public simply chose a candidate based on
irrational considerations (e.g., outward appearance, religion, and race),
without contemplating the candidate’s policies that would ultimately
affect society. In general, in the phenomenon of Jakarta’s 2017 guberna-
torial election, information technology and social media facilitated the
190 G. C. ACIKGENC AND H. S. PRATAMA

arrival of the post-truth era. In particular, this resulted in the awakening of

the middle-class consciousness, which articulates Islamic identity through
the framework of essentialism and ushers in religion as a force in one city’s
politics along with its urban society.
Finally, it is important to mention the key limitation of this study, which
is the lack of data on how the role of testimony can directly influence the
political process. Thus, future studies on social epistemology should com-
plement this study by obtaining data through interviews, questionnaires,
and surveys.

Acknowledgments This work was supported by the Universitas Indonesia’s

Research Grant (PITTA 2017) managed by DRPM UI (Grant Number:
NKB-452/UN2.R3.1/HKP.05.00/2017). It was copyedited by ENAGO.

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 CHAPTER 13

Religion in Urban Politics: Social Media

and Its Regulatory Debates in the Aftermath
of the 2017 Jakarta Gubernatorial Election

Vience Mutiara Rumata, Karman,

and Ashwin S. Sastrosubroto

Introduction
Jakarta, the capital city of Indonesia, is a modern city that is also still devel-
oping in terms of infrastructure. The city is the center of economy, busi-
ness, politics, and governance in the nation and is home to the most
diverse cultures in Indonesia. Regarding politics, the 2017 Jakarta

V. M. Rumata (*)
Research Center for Society and Culture, The Research and Innovation Agency
of the Republic of Indonesia, Jakarta, Indonesia
e-mail: [email protected]
Karman
Research Center for Society and Culture, The National Research and Innovation
Agency, Republic of Indonesia, Jakarta, Indonesia
e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s) 2025 193

M. Budiman, A. Kusno (eds.), Collective Memory, Marginality, and
Spatial Politics in Urban Indonesia.,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-97-4304-9_13
194 V. M. RUMATA ET AL.

gubernatorial election can be argued as a battle for the sustainability of

democracy in the nation.
The national General Elections Commission announced simultaneous
regional elections in 101 regions across the country in February 2016,
including Jakarta. The two candidates in the final stage of the election
were contradictory figures: Anies Baswedan, former education minister,
and former Jakarta Governor Basuki Tjahaja Purnama, called Ahok. This
election was a fierce political battle between performance and capacity and
a popular personality figure.
During the election, public participation in social media polarized sup-
porters of Ahok and those of Anies Baswedan, where Ahok criticized his
political opponents for misusing an Al-Quran verse for political purposes
during his visit to Kepulauan Seribu, Jakarta’s district, on September
2016. He stated that voters were being deceived by those who used verse
51 of Al-Maida, and his video on YouTube went viral after Buni Yani
posted the edited version as well as the transcript, from which he allegedly
removed the word “pakai” or in English “used” (Detikmetro.com, 2016).
Indonesian Ulama Council (MUI, Majelis Ulama Indonesia) consid-
ered Ahok’s speech blasphemous to the Qur’an and a humiliation of
Ulama and Muslims (MUI, 2017). The MUI Fatwa received support
from the National Movement of Fatwa Controller led by Bachtiar Nasir
and Habib Rizieq Syihab, and the movement initiated a series of actions
(known as “Aksi Bela Islam”) on October 14, 2016, November 4, 2016,
and December 2, 2016. Ahok apologized to the public and clarified his
statement to the national police. Nevertheless, he was sentenced to two
years in prison (after 17 trials) on April 20, 2017, a day after he was
defeated in the gubernatorial election (Rachelea, 2017).
Freedom of expression is a right guaranteed by Indonesia’s 1945
Constitution (Chapter 28). However, the practice of this freedom has
encountered great debate with regard to hate speech. Campaigns of intol-
erance, a religion-based state establishment, the disowning of Pancasila,
hate speech toward minorities, and other divisive movements grew and
polarized discussions on social media during the Jakarta gubernatorial
election. Social media facilitates diverse information exchange, and

A. S. Sastrosubroto
Telkom University, Bandung, Indonesia
e-mail: [email protected]
 13 RELIGION IN URBAN POLITICS: SOCIAL MEDIA AND ITS REGULATORY… 195

ideological polarization is inevitable in the context of political discussions

(Lee et al., 2014). Instead of fostering advancement, freedom of expres-
sion in cyber media wrecks the state, for instance, in the form of the
emerging hoax and hate speech manufacturing group Saracen (Mediani,
2017) or the finding of thousands of radical and terrorist propaganda con-
tents on Telegram (Hasyim, 2017). However, Indonesians have demon-
strated sufficient awareness of hoax contents (Mastel, 2017).
The focus of this chapter is on the role of religion in urban political
morality, such as on social media, and to what extent it could pose chal-
lenges for internet governance in the future. The backdrop of this study is
the second round of the 2017 Jakarta Gubernatorial election from March
7 to April 15, 2017. We conducted a literature review to present a com-
prehensive overview of polarization, and we have divided this chapter into
three parts: (1) value construction on social media; (2) political morality
in Jakarta gubernatorial election; and (3) regulatory implications. Media
plays a significant role in ideological polarization in Indonesia, historically
and politically. Social media poses new challenges for existing internet
governance, specifically whether regulations can prevent the escalation of
threats against the values of Pancasila and the unity of the nation.

Value Construction on Social Media

Social media has penetrated Indonesian society in a significant way; it has
served not only for individual social interactions but also for social mobi-
lization and change. There are at least 143.26 million internet users in
Indonesia, most of whom use the service for chatting and social media
(APJII, 2017), including to speak out against issues that harm the society
or community. The “Koin Peduli Prita” Facebook fan page and Twitter
hashtags “#FreePrita” and “#KoinKeadilan” were symbols of public sup-
port during a defamation case between a homemaker, Prita Mulyasari, and
a private hospital between 2008 and 2009 (kompas.com, 2009), and
“#saveKPK” was an expression of public support on social media for the
Corruption Eradication Commission (KPK, Komisi Pemberantasan
Korupsi) following the controversial “Cicak vs Buaya” (“gecko vs. croco-
dile”) public statement made by head of National Police Comr. Gen.
Susno Duadji in 2010 (Suryakusuma, 2015); “#saveKPK” was even trend-
ing on Twitter on January 23, 2015 (Deliusno, 2015).
Social media transcends collaborative creation. It is a place for value
creation and consumption, and value creation on social media involves
196 V. M. RUMATA ET AL.

strong themes and potential actors’ contributions to disseminate them.

Bechmann and Lomborg (2012) argue that there are two approaches that
determine the value creation on social media: (1) the industry-centric per-
spective (creating economic and social value in terms of power exploita-
tion) and (2) the user-centric perspective (creating value in terms of
self-creative exploration). These dichotomous value creation patterns raise
concerns about “theoretical collapse of production and usage” (Bechmann
& Lomborg, 2012, p. 774). Hence, in the analysis, they consider how
these two distinct perspectives would complement or contextualize each
other. In taking a user-centric perspective to understand value creation on
social media, we should acknowledge that self-values are not only created
but also shared in the network. Social media enables the distribution and
the expansion of these shared values. Accordingly, Oh et al. (2015) argue
that social media is a vital aspect of collective behavior and social
movements.
They consider social media values keynoting processes that result in
unified and strong themes that stand out among “milling voices and cha-
otic interactions” (Oh et al., 2015, p. 212). The authors also criticize the
perspective that separates the online from the offline world. Lim (2018)
argues that the use of social media is so immense that it penetrates the
social and cultural aspects of urban society. Thus, the dichotomy between
the real and virtual is no longer relevant, which has created a sphere she
calls “cyber-urban space.” On another note, Rodriguez (2013) argues that
collective sense-making comprises relationships between actors and their
coordinative actions. These actions include daily engagement in the net-
work, their contributions to diffusing the shared meaning, and the charac-
teristics of sense-making process in networked cultures.
The next question refers to how people incorporate these themes into
their belief systems and construct certain behaviors on social media. In a
very open-ended environment such as social media, individuals are able to
connect in diverse, vast, and heterogeneous networks. Consequently, it is
likely that individuals become exposed to diverse information that can
challenge their predispositions. However, the question is whether these
diverse networks lead to freer and more deliberate choices for engagement
or to like-minded and not like-minded divisions.
Social media creates an echo chamber effect whereby people tend to
engage with like-minded groups rather than opposing groups, no matter
how diverse the network is. Lee et al. (2014, p. 713) found that the more
people engage in political discussions on social media, the more likely is
 13 RELIGION IN URBAN POLITICS: SOCIAL MEDIA AND ITS REGULATORY… 197

partisan and ideological polarization even amid a diverse network. For

instance, polarization happens very easily on Twitter (Barberá, 2015;
Conover et al., 2011; Lorentzen, 2014), particularly regarding political
matters, whereas the echo chamber effect is not as captured on news
Twitter (Colleoni et al., 2014). Polarization is also seen on high emotional
engagement Facebook group (Vicario et al., 2016). This echo chamber
effect may also foster “social extremism and political polarization”
(Barberá, 2015). Hashtags on Twitter may exhibit initial information
about content that users may or may not engage in (Conover et al., 2011).
According to the need of orientation concept, a person will not seek per-
sonally irrelevant information. Therefore, if the relevance is low, people
will show less of an interest (McCombs & Stroud, 2014).
When an individual faces two different opinions, they may decide a
particular opinion that is contrary to their personal belief. For example,
one might believe that “forgiving is good” but decide not to forgive some-
one else’s mistake. Cognitive dissonance may explain this condition.
Initially proposed by Leon Festinger (1957), cognitive dissonance refers
to the idea that a person may not tolerate inconsistencies between two
cognitions represented by belief and behavior (Cooper, 2007). The more
disagreement between the two cognitions, the more people are inclined to
reduce the dissonance (p. 7). A person in this situation would likely change
their beliefs, actions, or perception of action (Festinger, 1957 in Teng
et al., 2015, p. 44). Nonetheless, criticism regarding this theory emerged
due to its inability to predict behavior and measure the dissonance (p. 52).
This theory acknowledges self-autonomy to justify chosen behaviors or
Brehm’s (1956) “free choice paradigm.” Cognitive dissonance occurs in
daily human decision-making processes. Humans tend to reduce any pos-
sible conflict between choices (Cooper, 2007, p. 14).

Politics of Morality in Jakarta

Gubernatorial Election
In the first round of the election, there were three gubernatorial candi-
dates: (1) Agus Yudhoyono, son of former President Susilo Bambang
Yudhoyono; (2) incumbent governor Basuki Tjahja Purnama, alias Ahok;
and (3) former Education Minister Anies Baswedan. Agus and his partner
Sylvi lost by 16.71%, and the other two received similar numbers under
50% (Tempo, 2017). In March 2017, the Jakarta election commission
198 V. M. RUMATA ET AL.

announced a second round of voting for April 19, 2017 (KPU DKI
Jakarta, 2017). The two competing candidates were Ahok and Djarot
Saiful Hidayat and Anies and Sandiaga Uno.
The competition in the second round was fierce. Primordial issues, reli-
gion, and ethnicity were drawn into political campaign tensions. The
second-­round candidates were primordially very different. Ahok repre-
sented minority groups, specifically the Chinese and Christian, and Anies
represented the Moslem majority, and polarization was inevitable because
some campaigns encouraged Jakarta voters to choose the Moslem candi-
date no matter who he was. This polarization was induced by controversial
remarks Ahok made that were framed in a negative way and that went viral
on social media. In November 2016, the police accused Ahok of blas-
phemy (Rahadian, 2017; Rochmi, 2017; Rohamna, 2017).
Jakarta is a diverse, heterogeneous, and multicultural city, and research-
ers have found associations between high ethnic diversity and social con-
flict (Wasterly & Levine, 1997). However, Montalvo and Reynal-Querol
(2005) argue that degree of ethnic heterogeneity has no significant impact
on conflict but rather that the issue is ethnic polarization. The Ethnic
Polarization Index (EPOI) and the Ethnic Fractionalization Index (EFI)
are common methods used to mitigate potential conflict within society. In
the 2010 population census, the National Statistics Bureau found that
Indonesia’s EFI was 0.81 and EPOI was 0.5, meaning that Indonesia was
a highly heterogeneous society, yet not polarized, so that conflict was
unlikely (BPS, 2013). Using the same census database, Arifin et al. (2015)
found that Jakarta’s EPOI was 0.66 and EFI was 0.76. Jakarta’s EFI scale
was slightly more than the threshold (0.6), which means that it is unlikely
that any potential ethnic conflict would occur in a more ethnical heteroge-
neous society. Contrarily, an increase in ethnic heterogeneity in a homog-
enous society would lead to ethnic hostility (p. 252).
Even so, the growing ideological polarization during the Jakarta guber-
natorial election created clashes in Jakarta and around Indonesia. People
involved in mass rallies led by Rizieq Shihab, popularly known as “Aksi
212” or “aksi 411” (named after the dates of the rally: December 2 and
November 4), came from regions such as Java and Sumatera to defend
him (Fahmi, 2017). In particular, they were defending Islam after feeling
they had been insulted by a Christian-Chinese public figure. They defended
not only Islam but also their Ulama, Rizieq Shihab.
On the other side, the Ahokers accused the Rizieq loyalists of being
racist and unfit to live in Indonesia. Moreover, to Ahokers, who were
 13 RELIGION IN URBAN POLITICS: SOCIAL MEDIA AND ITS REGULATORY… 199

mostly rationalist, liberalist, moderate Moslems or minorities in Indonesia,

Ahok was a martyr and victim of the politicization of religion. They labeled
the opponents Arabized, or un-Indonesian, radical, fundamentalist, intol-
erant, and even terrorists (Lim, 2017, p. 9). In responding to the several
mass rallies, Ahokers used a thousand “thank you” flower boards (Harvey,
2017) to send their messages. According to Indonesia Indicator, a digital
research institution, the negative sentiment toward Rizieq increased after
Ahok’s detention, with calls for Rizeq, who was in exile, to face charges
including pornography. Rizieq’s loyalists, meanwhile, accused Ahokers of
attempting to criminalize their Ulama (Franciska, 2017).
The polarization between those loyal to Rizieq and those who were not
was tested by social media, instant messaging groups, and weblogs, and
the brewing conflict between the two candidates’ sympathizers grew
uncontainable. The Islam Defenders Front carried out several assaults and
intimidations against people who were suspected of insulting Rizieq
Shihab that went viral on social media (Puspitasari, 2017; Faruqi et al.,
2017). Not only that, some hashtags went viral to express both sides:
#aksibelaIslam, #aksibelaQuran, #aksidamai, #tangkapAhok, #penjara-
kanAhok, #DamaiBukanMakar (pro-Rizieq Shihab); #temanAhok, #kami-
Ahok, #Perjuanganbelumselesai (Ahokers).
In addition, both sides’ supporters used websites to express their voices
and interests, such as pkspuyengan.com, arrahmahnews.com, voaislam-
news.com (pro-Ahok) voa-islam.co.id, and arrahmah.com (anti-Ahok)
(Lim, 2017, p. 8). Campaigns to provoke fear over communism and
Chinese rule were brought back to the table to sharpen the polarization
between the pro- and anti-Ahok factions, and this was not the first time
that similar campaigns happened. In fact, Rizieq and his radical allies had
been accumulating power to bring down populist figures, including
President Joko Widodo (Budiasa, 2017). There was even at one point a
call for the President to take a DNA test to prove that he was not com-
munist (Gema Rakyat, 2017). These secretive yet obvious fear campaigns
had the potential to threaten the fundamental values of Pancasila, espe-
cially by polarizing indigenous versus and nonindigenous (Pribumi and
non-Pribumi). We find here that religion entered the 2017 Jakarta guber-
natorial election and changed political morality in ways that could have
affected the political climate in other cities around Indonesia.
It shows that religious factors become the precondition of political
morality. The source of morality in the context of this research is based on
religious morality. Political behavior (voters) is related to the theological
200 V. M. RUMATA ET AL.

beliefs of voters toward transcendental entities (including God, the

End Times).
The function of political morality based on religion has a “sticking
power” for social integration among the religious community. This demar-
cates “us” and “them.” Religious morality influences how citizens (voters)
behave in the context of voting. Their behavior is determined by religious
beliefs. Morality in this political context is not determined by public
morality, which protects all societies and has an orientation toward public
interest; it changes according to religious morality.
Political actors, especially those in the gubernatorial election of DKI
Jakarta, should pay attention to the ethical dimensions of society. Sutor
identified three political ethical dimensions: policy, politics, and polity
(Sutor, 1997). Policy reinforces traditional, Indonesian values in Pancasila
as groundslaag (foundation), such as faith, humanity, unity, justice, civility,
and wisdom. The political dimension strengthens the value of humanity
and morality, or deontology, based on Kantian philosophy. In polity, ethics
are implemented through a set of social political structures, including law
and order and political institutions. This set of social political structures
translates to a political aim that can only be achieved by strengthening the
culture and structure of Indonesia. In the context of new technology, the
use of social media in politics by individuals is rationalized for a higher
purpose (Sutor, 1997). Social media users’ moral politics should not con-
tradict the nation’s traditional values and aims, such as in terms of justice,
civility, and unity. The ethics of social politics should also depart from the
willingness to reach for traditional values as the main point of ethics.
Ideology is a basic framework of social cognition shared by members of
social groups, constituted by certain selections of sociocultural values, and
organized by an ideological schema that represents the self-definition of a
group (van Dijk, 1995, p. 248). Hall (1986) understood ideology as a
mental representation, mental framework, and presentation system that
guides behavior, attitudes, norms, and values. Certain groups use ideology
to legitimize and promote their interests (Halbwachs, 1992).
Ideological polarization has occurred throughout Indonesian history.
After Indonesian independence in 1945, President Soekarno’s Old Order
regime unified state ideology by creating a common enemy: neoliberalism
and neocolonialism. President Soeharto’s New Order regime preserved
the unified ideology by making the left (communism) and the right (radi-
cal Moslem) common enemies. The New Order conducted ideologiza-
tion, depoliticization, and Pancasila indoctrination on all people.
 13 RELIGION IN URBAN POLITICS: SOCIAL MEDIA AND ITS REGULATORY… 201

During the Reformation, Indonesia became a democratic country that

guaranteed freedom of expression. Meanwhile, communication technology
developed from face-to-face to computer-mediated communication, printed
to e-news, mass media to personal one (e.g., social media, messaging
groups). Hence, ideology became personal, uncontrollable, and polarized.
Power over media played a significant role in constructing these polar-
izations in Indonesia. Under the Old and New Orders, commandeering
the mass media was common for disseminating the governments’ mes-
sages including the “common enemy” campaign. In 1959, Soekarno
forced the press to support the government (Ghazali, 2004) by imposing
tight regulations on publication permits (p. 60). After the fall of Soeharto
in May 1998, Indonesia’s media industry changed significantly (Armando,
2014; Nugroho et al., 2012). Freedom of the press was guaranteed by
Law Number 40/1999, and government control diminished after the clo-
sure of the Department of Information. Civil and political rights were also
guaranteed when the Indonesian government ratified Article 19 of the
International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights in February 2006
(Nugroho et al., 2012, p. 40).
Internet penetration in Indonesia had a great influence, particularly
among political elites, NGOs, and student activists, on public opinion for-
mation (Winters, 2002). In addition to being a source of information, the
internet was a tool for coordinating young activists who endeavored to
end three decades of dictatorship (Winters, 2002, p. 118). Freedom of
expression and technology enabled the augmentation of ideological polar-
ization in the form of “ideologies.”
Ideological polarization occurs in states with immature and mature
democracies. According to Haidt (2012), between 1976 and 2008, the
proportion of Americans living in highly partisan counties increased from
27% to 48%. He concluded that people are fundamentally intuitive, not
rational. Others can only be persuaded by appealing to their sentiments.
Even in countries with mature democratic systems (e.g., America), reli-
gion influences voters. The difference is that religion-based morality
departs from humanism principles and orients toward human interests
(e.g., political discourse on the issue of abortion and euthanasia).
202 V. M. RUMATA ET AL.

Regulatory Debates
The Indonesian government issued Law Number 19/2016 on Electronic
Information and Transaction (amending Law Number 11 of 2008), also
known as UU ITE (Undang-Undang Informasi dan Transaksi Elektronik),
Indonesia’s most comprehensive law on internet governance. Along with
this, Government Decree Number 82 of 2012 on the electronic system
and transaction management offers the technical basis of the law. These
two laws comprise the legal reference for regulating digital issues such as
e-commerce and even social media. As the number of social media users in
Indonesia increased, a quasi-intergovernmental body called the National
Cyber and Crypto Agency (Badan Siber dan Sandi Negara) formed under
Presidential Decree Number 53/2017. The aim of this agency was to
enhance national cyber security (Kementerian Sekretariat Negara, 2017)
and to supervise social media accounts (Sutrisno, 2017).
Social media content is considered objects of law under the UU ITE,
but the limitation of content regulation tends to be a “gray area” in terms
of justice. In fact, the Minister of Communication and Informatics will not
hesitate to block social media accounts that are proven to have violated the
law. Debates on the “catchall articles” were inevitable because laws under
these articles were often used to criminalize people by nit-picking their
flaws on social media and bringing them to court in an attempt to pun-
ish them.
In 2015, the Chief of Indonesian National Police released circular No.
SE/06/X/2015 on hate speech in which hate speech is defined as any
criminal offense outside the constitution, such as defamation, slander,
libel, provocation, circulation of hoax (2(f)) or speech that is intended to
provoke hatred toward individuals or a group of people based on ethnicity,
religion, religious beliefs, faith, race, skin color, gender, disability, or sex-
ual orientation (2(g)). This letter provides instruction for law enforcement
to be fair while handling hate speech cases (Mangantibe, 2016).
The National Commission on Human Rights (Komisi Nasional Hak
Asasi Manusia/Komnas HAM) objected and asked that defamation not be
categorized as hate speech in the letter (Tempo, 2015). The Southeast Asia
Freedom of Expression Network (Safenet) argued that UU ITE tended to
threaten freedom of speech and silence criticism. For instance, Safenet
found 381 people who were victims of Articles 27(3) and 28(2) from
2008 to 2018 (Berita Satu, 2018).
 13 RELIGION IN URBAN POLITICS: SOCIAL MEDIA AND ITS REGULATORY… 203

In addition to defamation, blasphemy has also provoked debate in the

public space. The case of Ahok, who was framed for blaspheming Islam,
heated up the political climate and brought a new challenge to the regula-
tion makers. Regulations should be based on rationality, and throughout
history, the relationship between religion and politics, which is regulated
in Indonesia, has involved debates between Islamic and secular national-
ists. This resulted in compromise in the form of Pancasila, commonly
understood as the core values of the nation. This debate on Islamic versus
secularist nationalism also happened in Indonesia in the context of politi-
cal contestation in the context of the function of religion in practical poli-
tics, specifically to raise political awareness, including determining how
religion and politics should correlate in a nation.
President Joko Widodo argued that politics and religion should be sep-
arated, which provoked debate. Rais Am from PBNU and chief of MUI
K. H. Ma’ruf Amin, posited that religion and politics influence one
another. State politics should also gain approval from religion (Artharini,
2017). Yudi Latif, a lecturer from Universitas Paramadina, contended that
there is no problem between religion and politics and that the problem is
rather with the political elites. The Religious Affairs Minister at that time,
Lukman Hakim Saifuddin, also agreed that religion and politics cannot be
separated (Itsman, 2017). However, he reminded people not to politicize
religion, which to him entailed using, manipulating, and exploiting reli-
gion for merely pragmatic political interest.
According to Ridwan Lubis, a professor at State Islamic University
Syarif Hidayatullah, religion is the responsibility of the state. Articles on
religion in Indonesia’s Constitution provide a climate for law creation
(Elnizar, 2018). General Secretary of PP Abdul Mu’ti Muhammadiyah
put forth that religion was an important matter with ample opportunity
and that there was absolutely no room for politics to be separated from
religion and society (Hidayatullah.com, 2018). These discussions show
that religion and politics in Indonesia can never be separated; religion is
the source of politics and laws in Indonesia. Debates on how religion and
politics should intertwine are not new. For example, the debate between
BPUPKI (The Investigating Committee for Preparatory Work for
Independence) and the constituent assembly, a state organization in
Indonesia meant to formulate new constitutions.
At present, the Indonesian government has only been persuasive toward
social media platform providers. For instance, the Minister of CIT asked
global websites to block its AdSense to prevent the spread of falsehoods
204 V. M. RUMATA ET AL.

on social media (Jefriando, 2017). In addition, the government must

adopt firm action in reinforcing the UU ITE, especially for global digital
companies operating in Indonesia. For example, Government Decree No.
82/2012 stipulates that global companies have to acquire the statues of
Permanent Establishment (Badan Usaha Tetap). Consequently, they
become Indonesia’s legal entities similar to Indonesian companies and are
obligated to pay Indonesian taxes. However, some companies are reluc-
tant to obtain this status but continue to operate in the country (Rumata
& Sastrosubroto, 2017). The government has urged Facebook to renew
its “consulting management” principal company status since it was classi-
fied as a “digital platform provider,” according to Indonesian Standard
Industrial Classification. Without this status, the government is autho-
rized to block access and social media providers’ services in Indonesia
(according the Article 2 of the UU ITE amendment).
The government should be able to mobilize society against fake news or
negative content. To do so, the government should increase societal aware-
ness of the existing internet content regulations, for instance through moot
court. The MCIT, working together with ITU, held the Asia-Pacific
Regional Mock Court Exercise on Fighting Cybercrime on September
18–19, 2012. This moot court was effective in demonstrating to the public
the possible issues for law enforcement, as well as some bilateral and multi-
lateral issues related to solving some cases that may emerge (the MCIT
press release Number 78/2012). Lastly, the government actively urged
international forums to formulize feasible global “cyber ethics” (IGF,
2014; ITU, 2012, 2013). These ethics formulations accommodate urban
society’s activity in cyber space and similarly promote including local values
in formulating global cyber regulations. The United Nations General
Assembly should follow with creating a binding multilateral agreement.

Conclusion
The 2017 Jakarta gubernatorial election was a fierce political battle
between two candidates: a Christian Chinese candidate named Basuki
Tjahja Purnama, alias Ahok, and an Arab-Indonesian candidate named
Anies Baswedan. The election became a contest of ideologies between
majority and minority, and the polarization between pro- and anti-Ahok
was inevitable after Ahok’s controversial remarks regarding Al-Maida 51
in 2016. Both voices used social media and other online media to channel
their interests and expressions, and supporters of each side grew stronger
 13 RELIGION IN URBAN POLITICS: SOCIAL MEDIA AND ITS REGULATORY… 205

in both digital and public spaces. This polarization amplified bigger issues
such Pancasila versus anti-Pancasila and indigenous versus nonindigenous
that could potentially threaten Indonesian unity and democracy.
Social media plays a role as a value creator and an amplifier of ideology
polarization. Although social media facilitates the formation of diverse
networks of information, political polarization remains inevitable, and
social media can become an echo chamber. Throughout history, media has
played a significant role in polarizing citizens in Indonesia. The Old Order
regime harnessed mass media to create a common enemy: anti-Western
anti-neocolonialism. Similarly, the New Order regime used mass media for
anti-communist (left extremist) and anti-radicalism (right extremist) cam-
paigns. Mass media became the government’s tool for building a unified
ideology. In contrast, in the era of Reformation, unified ideology was chal-
lenged by democracy with regard to freedom of expression, faith, and civic
and political rights. In addition to facilitating the need for information,
social media became a tool for socializing and political movements.
This political polarization brought challenge for the regulator and exist-
ing regulations. Regulations regarding social media mainly exist in Article
27 Sections (1), (2), and (3) as well as Article 28 Sections (1) and (2) of
Law No. 19 of 2016 on Electronic Information and Transaction (amend-
ment of the Law No. 11 of 2008). The law has not been thoroughly imple-
mented in UU ITE. Regulations for social media content on UU ITE still
fall within a “gray area.” After the 2017 gubernatorial election of DKI
Jakarta, debates regarding “catchall articles” on UU ITE, especially on
defamation and libel, continued to appear as threatening the freedom of
expression. Nevertheless, this shows how religion can be the center of all
political constellations, which can tremendously impact the national order.
Indonesia is not the only country to experience challenges in terms of
regulations. The Indonesian government has tried to be more active in
supporting international forums to formulate global cyber ethics that
accommodate local values, including city politics. This chapter proposes
that future research should address the ideological fractionalization index
to measure polarization in terms of mental state, value, and belief. This
index, apart from the existing EFI and EPOI, would offer an alternative
view for broadly understanding polarization and how to overcome the
problems.

Acknowledgments This work was copyedited by ENAGO.

206 V. M. RUMATA ET AL.

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 Index

A Argomz, 58, 59
Activist, 51, 103, 132, 135, 139 The Arrest of Prince Dipanegara, 163
Adipura, 158 Arsip Jazz Indonesia, 131,
African American, 50–51 132, 136–139
Agrarian Basic Law, 118 Art Deco, 149
Agrarian studies, 6 Asian Games, 133, 134
Agung binatara, 88 Assimilation Law, 70
Ahok, 18, 177, 178, 183, 184,
186–188, 194, 197–199,
203, 204 B
Ahokers, 198, 199 Bajaj, 120, 123
Aksi Bela Islam, 194 Bandoeng Vooruit, 17,
Ali Sadikin, 113, 115, 124, 130 163–165, 167–174
Al-Maida 51, 204 Bank Dagang Negara, 104, 105
Al-Maidah, 178 Basuki Tjahaja Purnama (Ahok), 177
Amarahmu, 34 Baswedan, Anies, 186, 194, 197, 204
Ambachtscholen, 167 Batam Authority, 102, 103, 105, 109
Anak gedongan, 58 Batam City, 100–102, 104, 106
Aneka Ria Safari, 133 Batam Island, 99, 102
Anti-Western discourses, 132 Batavia, 16, 116, 147, 148, 152, 161,
Architecture, 6, 147–150, 157, 158 164, 165
Arek Malang, 9–11, 55–66 Batu Ampar, 103
Arek Suroboyo, 12, 13 Bekraf, 134, 140
Arema, 56, 61–64 Betawi, 116, 118, 121, 186
Aremania, 10, 55–66 Beverly Hills, 114, 119

© The Author(s) 2025 213

M. Budiman, A. Kusno (eds.), Collective Memory, Marginality, and
Spatial Politics in Urban Indonesia.,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-97-4304-9
214 INDEX

Boso Malangan, 58, 59 Cultural heritage, 42, 48, 131, 132,

Boso Walikan, 58, 59 134, 135, 158
Branding, 13, 17, 48, 184, 189 Cultural studies, 2
Bukit Girang, 108 Cyber ethics, 204, 205
Bumiputera, 90 Cyber media, 195
Buruh paksa, 49 Cyber security, 202
Buskers, 9, 33, 34, 38 Cyberspace/cyber space, 182, 204
Buzzers, 184 Cyber-urban space, 196

C D
Capital city, vi, 17, 33, 41, 124, 164, Dangdut, 7, 9, 10, 27–38, 133
186, 193 Dangdut gerobak, 9, 10, 27–29,
Cek Toko Sebelah (CTS), 9, 11, 69–81 31–33, 35, 37, 38
Centralization, 131, 140 Dangdut gerobakan, 33
Chained convicts, 42, 48 Dead city, 41
Chained people, 10 Decentralization, 15, 17, 131, 140
Chinese community, 61 (De)colonization, 5, 6
Chinese culture, 11 De eenheid der wereld, 146
Chinese Indonesians, 70–72, Delman, 165, 170
76, 79–81 Desakota, 4
Ciputra, 118 De Taak, 150, 157
Cityscapes, 5, 6, 12 Do-it-yourself (DIY), 131
City spaces, 34, 35, 38, 74, 187 Dolly, 12, 13, 89, 91–96
Class division, 157 Dolly Khavit, 93
Coexistence, 125, 140, 186 Domination, 29, 148
Cognitive dissonance, 182, 197 Dutch colonialization, 129
Collective creativity, 37 Dutch colonization, 43–44
Collective memory, 9–11, 15, Dutch colonizers, 46, 49, 51, 61
18, 42, 46 Dutch East Indies, 88, 90, 137, 145,
Collective sense-making, 196 148, 149, 162, 164
Colonial heritage, 16 Dutch government, 5, 47, 49, 50, 88
Communal spaces, 75, 77–80 Dutch Netherlands Indies, 152,
Communism, 199, 200 156, 157
Community archive/community
archiving, 132, 135
Community-based movement, 15 E
Comparative urbanism, 3 Echo chamber effect, 196
Contra-narration, 10 Ecosoc Rights, 6
Counter-memories, 48 Eka Dasa Taruna, 57
Crimes, 104 Epistemic source, 180
Culinary tourism, 170 Epistemology, 178, 179, 181, 183, 190
 INDEX 215

Eroticism, 29, 30, 35–37 Gondrong, 133

Essentialization, 186, 188 GOR Pulosari, 57
Ethnic heterogeneity, 198 Governmentality, vi, 7, 33
Europa in de Troupen, 164 Great Depression, 155
European tourists, 169 Gubernatorial election, 177, 179,
Exclusion, 12, 80 183–185, 187–189, 194, 195,
Extended metropolis, 4 198–200, 204, 205
Guided Democracy, 132

F
Facebook, 183, 184, 195, 197, 204 H
Fake news, 179, 184, 189, 204 Habibie, B.J., 108
Fans Club, 63 Hajj, 122, 123
Female body, 28, 31 Hate speech, 194, 202
Female objectification, 36 Heritage city, 42, 48
Female sexuality, 28, 29, 31 Heterotopia, 14
Feminist criticism, 87 Het Parijs van Java, 164
Feminist movement, 87 Hoax, 182, 195, 202
Financial crisis, 101, 108 Hospitality industry, 166
Five-Year Development Plan, 99
Flaneur, 74
Flashbacks, 76 I
Forum Kota, 7 Identity formation, 9, 18
Freedom of expression, 194, 201 Illegal settlements, 100, 102, 103, 109
Freedom of the press, 201 Imported urbanism, 4
Frobel, 167 Inacraft, 134
Independent architecture, 148
Indies architecture, 148, 149
G Indiese Stedebouw, 146
Gajayana, 61, 64 Indigenous people, 90, 91, 121, 145,
Galatama, 62–64 158, 162
Gang Dolly, 12, 13, 87–96 Indigenous scholars, 5
Gangs, 56, 58–65 Indonesia across orders, 5
Gangster, 55–66 Indonesian cities, v–vii, 4, 5, 7,
Gangster culture, 61 17, 19, 102
Geblok, 117 Indonesian films, 70
Gedongan, 65 Indonesian Jazz Archives, 15
Gemeente, 65, 90, 164, 167–169, 173 Indonesian middle class, 31
Gemeente Bandung, 167 Indonesian Music Museum, 15
Gethek, 165 Indonesian Ulama Council, 194
Gezaghebber in den Oosthoek, 90 Industrial city, 12, 13, 100, 101,
Golkar Party, 133 104, 109
216 INDEX

Informality, 7, 13, 14 Lubang Mbah Soero, 42

Information age, 9 Lubang Sugar, 44
Information technology, 16, 178, Lubang Tambang Mbah Soero,
181–183, 189 43, 44, 51
Intermediate space, 7
International Covenant on Civil and
Political Rights, 201 M
Internet governance, 195, 202 Mak Itam, 43–45, 51
Irama Nusantara, 15, 131, 132, 134, Marginality, 8, 19
136, 137, 139 Marginalization, 11, 122
Islam Defenders Front, 199 Marginalized space, 78
Islamic identity, 186, 188, 190 Market design, 16, 146, 154, 158
Marketplace, 151
Masculinity, 29, 58, 61
J Mass media, 188, 201, 205
Jaarbeurs, 171, 172 Master Plan, 115
Jalan Jarak, 91 Mataram Kingdom, 88
Japanese occupation, 89, 91 Mbah Soero, 44–47, 51, 52
Javanese community, 151 Meaning-making process, 43, 46,
Johar Market, 16, 145–158 48, 52, 71
Joko Widodo (Jokowi), 131, 134, Mega-urban regions, 4
199, 203 Memory, 9–13, 15, 17, 18, 42,
46, 48, 49, 51, 52, 61, 76,
77, 80, 81, 131, 137, 140,
K 178, 187
Kampong, 114 Merantau, 4, 42
Kampung, v, 7, 13, 58, 65, 78 Messy urbanism, 4
Kampung class, 7 Metro Pondok Indah, 119
Karsten, Thomas, 16, 145–158 Micro-economy, 93
Kebayoran Baru, 115, 120 Middle class, 18, 65, 114–116,
Kebayoran Lama, 114, 115, 119, 186–188
120, 123 Middling urbanism, 7
Keroncong, 129 Migrants, 1, 90, 92, 101, 103–105,
109, 124, 186
Minangkabau, 49, 50
L Mining city, 41, 44, 51
Land acquisition, 114, 122 Mise-en-scène, 71, 72, 77
Lekra, 132 Modern city, 69, 149, 193
Local history, 55 Modernity, v, 10, 33, 37, 65, 66, 71,
Lokalisasi, 7 80, 119, 187
Lokananta, 15, 130–132, 134, 136, Modernization, 1, 11, 12, 16,
138, 139 61, 73, 157
 INDEX 217

Monetary crisis, 101 P

Mooi Bandoeng, 164, Paguyuban, 18
166–168, 170–172 Pancasila, 194, 195, 199, 200,
Mooi Indies, 17 203, 205
Morality discourse, 12, 13 Pasar-creditwezen, 153
Multiculturalism, 70, 71 Pasar Johar, 16, 146, 148, 153–158
Municipal government, 12, 13, 95, Pasar Pedamaran, 153–155
96, 153, 157, 173 Pasukan Bodrex, 63
Museum Musik Indonesia, 131, Patriarchal capitalism, 28, 31, 32
132, 136–140 Pedati, 165
Music industry, 57 Persema, 56, 61–64
Musik kampungan, 31, 32 Persema Malang, 56, 61–64
Musyawarah, 17, 18 Perserikatan, 63, 64
Perumnas, 115
Petrus, 59
N Pieter Sijthoff, 166
Narcotics smuggling, 105 Polarization, 17, 179, 186, 195,
National identity, 15, 130 197–201, 204, 205
Negara Kertagama, 89 Political morality, 195, 199, 200
Neoliberalism, 200 Pondok Indah, 12, 14, 113–125
Netherlands Institute for War Pondok Indah Mall (PIM), 119
Documentation, 5 Pondok Pinang, 12, 14, 113–125
Netizens, 9, 184 Popular culture, 28, 57, 70, 81, 130,
Network society, 9 131, 133, 134, 136
New Order, 5, 14, 69, 70, Popular music, 15, 29, 38, 129–140
80, 101, 131–134, 187, Population density, 115
200, 205 Postcolonial cities, 4
Nightclubs, 107–109 Postcolonial Indonesia, 5
Post-Reformasi, v
Post-Reformation, 131
O Post-Suharto Jakarta, 5
Old Order, 200, 205 Post-truth, 17, 178, 179, 181,
Oma Irama, 133 182, 188–190
Online media, 28, 29, 37, 204 Prakasa, Ernest, 70, 71, 81
Orang kontrak, 49 Preangerplanters, 166
Orang rantai, 10, 42–52 Priangan, 17, 165, 166
Ordinary cities, 3 Pribumi, 186
Orkes dangdut gerobak, 7, 28, Primordial religiosity, 186
29, 31–38 Priyayis, 87
Orkes dangdut keliling, 30, 33 Prostitution, 13, 14, 87–96,
Orkes dorong, 33 99–109
Orkes Selvina, 28, 33–36, 38 PS Arema, 56, 61–64
218 INDEX

PT Metropolitan Kencana, 114 Sawahan, 59, 91, 93

PT Metropolitan Kentjana, 116, 119 Sawahlunto, 10, 41–52
Putat Jaya, 88, 89, 91, 93–95 Search engine algorithms, 183, 189
Sex industry, 12, 87
Sexual harassment, 27, 36, 37
Q Sexually transmitted diseases, 108
Qur’an Learning Park, 92 Sex workers, 12, 13, 88, 91,
92, 107–108
Silaturahmi, 18
R Sinematek Indonesia, 130
Racial segregation, 146, 156, 158 Singapore, 71, 75, 99, 100, 104–109,
Radical Moslem, 200 116, 124, 130
Radio Republik Indonesia, 130 Si Ruli, 102
Rasa Sayange, 134 Slum, 102, 151
Rationality, 186, 188 Social disease, 101
Real estate, 14, 114–116, 186 Social division, 90
Real-Estate Indonesia, 103 Social epistemology, 178, 179
Reformasi, 70 Social media, 15–18, 136, 178,
Reformation, 131, 201, 205 179, 182–189,
Reform Era, 134 194–196, 198–205
Regeringsreglement, 90 Social pathologies, 12, 13, 100,
Religious morality, 199, 200 101, 104
Resilience, 7, 11, 81 Social Service Department, 93
Resistance, 7, 9, 11, 12, 15, 18, 62, Social strategy, 37
186, 188 Soeharto, 99, 133, 134, 200, 201
Revitalization, 158 Soekarno, 115, 132, 134, 200, 201
Rijsttafel, 170 Southern theory, 3
Rizieq Shihab, 198, 199 Spatial continuity, 72
Rock music, 58, 61 Stadsvormingsordonnantie, 150
Ruangrupa, 6 Stedelijke middenstand, 151
Rujak, 6 Subaltern urbanism, 3
Rumah bilik, 117 Suburbs, 14, 91, 114, 116, 118, 124
Rumah Sangat Sederhana Superblocks, 74
(RSS), 103 Surabaya City Government, 93, 95
Rumah tembok, 117 Surveillance, 37

S T
Sado, 167, 170 Tauke, 113
Saminism, 44 Technisce Hoogeschool Bandung, 150
Samin Surosentiko, 44 Testimony, 18, 178–181, 188–190
SARA, 177, 187 Timezone, 122
 INDEX 219

Toko kelontong, 71–81 Urban spaces, 5–10, 14, 18, 27, 31,
Tourism industry, 106 38, 69, 71, 73, 75, 80, 114, 140
Traditional markets, 156 Urban studies, vii, 2–7, 19
Trafficking, 92, 106, 109 Urban subaltern, 6
Tribina Cita, 56 Urban sustainability, 7
Trowulan, 89 Urban symbolism, 4
Tukar guling, 117 Urban tourism, 17, 173
Twitter, 184, 195, 197 Urban villages, 93, 115, 118

U V
Undercurrents, vi, 4 Vereeniging Toeristenverkeer, 164
UNESCO, 41, 43 Virtual connectivity, 179
Unified ideology, 200, 205 Volunteer-based communities, 131
United world, 146, 149, 157
Urban history, 5, 145
Urban involution, 4 W
Urbanism, vii, 3, 4, 7, 29, 38 Wandelgids, 164
Urbanization, v, 1, 3, 4, 7, 13, 100, Warung, 78
101, 105, 109, 113, 115 Westernization, 133
Urban kampung, 7 Western music, 57, 65, 133
Urban planning, 6, 13, 14, 109, 146, Women’s studies, 87
147, 150, 152, 156, 157 World War II, 146, 164
Urban politics, 10
Urban Poor Consortium, 6
Urban problems, 13, 69, 74, 100 Y
Urban regeneration, 6, 9, 11, 71, 72, Young people, 11, 58, 59, 61,
74, 79–81 63–65, 136
Urban services, 102 Youth culture, 10