To remember is to forget, vice versa: Pantjoran, PIK
I was born and raised in the southern suburbs of Jakarta. Rarely did I set my foot on the far-north areas of the city. I only knew one thing: that the air in the north is putrid — characteristic of seawater and fish markets. However, recently, my family relocated to some place more central. So, the once-foreign northern territories suddenly become my new hood, especially Pantai Indah Kapuk (PIK).
The residents of the PIK are predominantly Indonesians of Chinese descent. They are generally more affluent than average Jakarta residents and thus able to afford the exorbitantly-priced properties in the area. It is also interesting to note that the Chinese population in the city has historically lived in the northern peripheries of the city. Historical records indicate that the Chinese settlement in then-Batavia has moved northward while the city centre has shifted southward, creating a bigger distance between the two.
The built environment of PIK does not have any distinct soul or characteristic and thus, confusing. The lack of coherent city planning, coupled with uncoordinated developments by private property developers are probably the main causes.
However, smacked in the middle of houses with tacky Doric structures and rows of boring, grey-coloured shophouses, there stands a massive outdoor food court with an interesting concept: a Chinatown. It’s a sight to behold, and probably the only structure in the area that makes sense, visually speaking. It promises an immersive foodie experience — eating Chinese food bought/served in a classic Chinese shophouse that is heavily decorated with things that are so…Chinese-y. Positively instagrammable.
The name is Pantjoran. Opened in 2020, Pantjoran hosts a range of culinary delights predominantly of Chinese/Peranakan origin, but it also has food from different parts of Indonesia. The name is an homage to Jalan Pantjoran in Glodok, the O.G. Chinatown of Jakarta. The very conscious choice of name, coupled with the colonial/old-style architecture make it obvious to the visitors that Pantjoran is an attempt of reliving the past. But does the past look anything like Pantjoran?
That’s the question that has been bothering me. I suspect that Pantjoran is anything but a representation of the past, specifically the past of the Chinese community in Jakarta. Since the colonial past, the Chinese have always been a threat to the rulers; which explained why the 1740 Massacre took place, why forced assimilation and nation-wide de-Sinicisation were imposed under Suharto, and why there remains a narrative of enmity being stoked by certain religious leaders against (politically influential) Chinese individuals.
Thus, given the tumultuous history of the Chinese residents of Jakarta, it is hard to imagine a past that looks like what the vibrant decor and ambiance in Pantjoran suggest. Currently, the architecture of the Glodok area is relatively modern and muted; it bears no resemblance of a lively, colourful Chinatown as suggested by Pantjoran. Additionally, looking at the old photos, the streets of Glodok’s famed Petak Sembilan looked nothing like Pantjoran. There were shophouses, but they tended to be modest and plain. It is almost as if we are seeing what’s supposed to be a memory of Pantjoran based on a past that never even existed.
However, the fact that the shophouses in Pantjoran look awfully similar to those in Kuala Lumpur’s and Singapore’s Chinatowns humoured me. Well, the past that Pantjoran imagines did exist after all — in a different country! A video even reported that Pantjoran is inspired by an old quarter in the city of Zhangzhou, China. If Pantjoran really were inspired by Chinatowns in other cities/countries, chances are it is a symptom of late-stage capitalism. Pantjoran manufactures a sense of nostalgia by being deliberately crafted to look old, but devoid of any actual history.
Indeed, human beings have the tendency to misrepresent the past. Naturally, we sieve out the bad in favour of the good memories — and if necessary, we ameliorate the bad to make them better. Thus, to remember and to immortalise what we (want to) remember is also an act of forgetting things. It is my opinion that the creation of Pantjoran is a deliberate act of remembering what we wish could have taken place in the past, and forgetting what actually has happened. Never mind its historical and spatial inaccuracies, Pantjoran is a clever and beautiful display of resilience. Amid all the hostility that then-Chinese diaspora and now Chinese Indonesians have experienced over time, Pantjoran is arguably a manifestation of a long-repressed collective dream of how a thriving, vibrant Chinese community could have looked like.
Though the historical foundations of Pantjoran are questionable, it offers a gateway to a utopic past. To put it on Marvel Cinematic Universe’s term, Pantjoran is almost like Wanda Maximoff’s Westview. On the surface, it seems like a denial of a painful memory, but the simulated and idealised past may be a necessary step to grieve well in order to thrive.
