Should a visitor ever wish to divine the essence of a place in Indonesia, the nearest alun-alun may provide the answers they seek. There they will find a square, the symbolic heart of the town, city or cluster. And as they skirt around the periphery of this space, the visitor will note the communal bond that surrounds the alun-alun.
The more observant will wonder whether they have glimpsed a form of symbiosis. For the square brings people together as though attracting them with invisible wires. As urban sprawl becomes more prevalent, and natural expanse becomes a sacrifice to the cold beast of progress, any reason to keep the flame of local character burning bright should be cherished.
(Disclaimer: This story’s not great. Factually accurate but the narrative is a bit wordy and muddled. Approach with caution, and maybe consider finding something else to read instead. This one, about Wisata Api Abadi in Pamekasan, has a similar kind of flow but reads better)
And what should the visitor expect if, upon stumbling upon this space? It is true that the squares and their fragments vary as much as the host area in which they reside. But equally pronounced are the common features. Thus, should a pair of strangers ever sit down to discuss their experiences of an alun-alun, they may surprise each other with the similarities of their accounts. They will agree upon the existence of a large open area, sometimes a square, often marked by a border of trees.
Should luck shine on the speakers, one of them may offer historical insight. They might explain that the alun-alun’s foundations lay within the farming community. Each time a farmer wished to use the land, they had to seek permission from the goddess of the that locale. Thus, convention required a ceremony. The farmer should create an area of sacred land, ideally with a rectangular shape. Here, the alun-alun took its first guise: a plea for help from an onlooking deity.
Read more: Heading to Java? This Javanese language primer might help.
And as history rushed forth, so too did the alun-alun adopt different forms. But one thing always remained constant. The square should act as a gathering place, for the wholesome, such as fairs, spectacles and court celebrations, or the macabre: public executions, corporal punishment and other such gruesome demonstrations.
Oftentimes, the square would enact an official function. On one side of the alun-alun, the south, sat the siti hinggi, which others would call the royal audience hall, or the home of the bupati regional ruler. The sultan would sit in state, and the alun-alun, in front of the palatial kraton or the regional kabupaten, would help direct this power. From here, the ebbs of power in Indonesia took shape. Evidence points to the Kraton of Yogyakarta as an early adopter of this model.
One with the other
And so it became standard for the alun-alun and the ruling power to co-exist. The two parties’ proximity deemed it so and denoted the socio-cultural meaning of the square. A pepe would become a recurrent sight during the colonial era. A protester, wearing white headgear and white clothes, would wait near the wringin kurung kembar. This, for the uninitiated, is a trimmed banyan tree enclosed within a fence, until the ruler approached or received them to preside over the issues at play. The square would host such meetings, or at least facilitate them, as a common ground. During the Mataram kingdom, these seba sessions became routine, and the alun-alun claimed a new name of paseben. In other words, the ruler’s hearing place.
The alun-alun did give rise to all kinds of rendezvous. Its primary function at one point was administrative. People would flock to the square upon receiving a summons. Perhaps they may hear a declaration or witness a display of might. A certain formality would always charge these occasions. The alun, despite keeping its shape, revealed further layers as the staging ground of regal ceremonies or war training or contests. And it was at the square that the people would gather to hear orders passed between the ruler and his subjects.
Often, the kraton and alun-alun would go hand-in-hand. It was not uncommon for each kraton to have two alun-alun: the kidul to the south and the lor to the north. Only in the latter would the Sultan or Susuhunan meet with his people. So doing, he abided by the strict rules governing the position of buildings around the square.
A lost traveller may chart their course by the alun-alun and its surroundings. The main mosque is found on the west side and faces east towards Mecca, and points to the arrival of Islam in Indonesia. The alun-alun would act as an open area should pilgrims overflow from mosques or masjids. Look to the south to find the official residence of the bupati, whom some might call the regent. And at the opposite end of the compass, to the north, lies the space reserved for markets, fairs and entertainment. To the east, one may find a judiciary or prison, shops, markets and the homes of prominent people.
Banyan attraction
Equally notable are the banyan trees that form the centrepiece of many squares. One may know these trees by their tangled roots and trunks, height and elliptical leaves. Less obvious is the banyan’s potential to grow infinitely. Alun-alun banyans stay trimmed and shorn so that the viewer may absorb their grace without becoming overwhelmed by their size. Maybe these banyans are not the continent-covering monstrosity conceived by Brian Aldiss in Hothouse. But they nonetheless bring grandeur and no small amount of mysticism to the fore.
Legend tells of the two banyan trees in Yoyakarta’s alun-alun. In 1989, one of these trees fell, which drew dread from the citizens. They felt certain that this loss foretold a terrible happening. Sure enough, the city’s ruler, Sri Sultan Hamengkubuwono IX, died. This uncanny turn of events only heightened people’s belief in the banyan’s supernatural sway. So too did this shock heighten the tree’s symbolism. Leaders should protect their people, and that, in a tree’s absence, foul things may wreak havoc.
In Surakarta, meanwhile, the palace’s southern square, known as Alkid, also homes a pair of banyan trees. There, they watch impassively over the square’s other renowned residents: caucasian buffaloes, the light-skinned descendents of the matriarch Kyai Slamet, herself one of the Kraton Kasunanan Surakarta’s sacred heirlooms.
Past gives way to history
But time and fate are malicious imps, and it didn’t take too long for the alun-alun to lose its former lustre. Enter the colonial period. In this time, Indonesia played host to outsiders who decreed her materials too bountiful and plentiful to leave alone.
The Dutch were but one set of these colonisers. They enacted a seachange upon the square to show the power shift in Java. ‘Twas ever thus. The Dutch appropriated the square’s public space. They put up prisons and accommodations for the colonising officials. And, in a masterstroke of psychology, they did so opposite the palace or Regent’s home to underline that a new power held sway.
So encroached, the former dignity and hierarchy of the alun-alun became weakened, crushed under the weight of these new symbols of power. The Indonesian leaders’ influence dissipated, and the alun-alun took on a new life. Not as a space of governance but as one of public gathering. Thus did the square adopt a new secular role. It had become an urban park rather than a vessel of authority for the powers that would rule it.
Jakarta is a notable exception, for it has no alun-alun. The region that became known as Batavia formed the centre of Dutch rule in the 17th century. It was designed for the colonists, who did not see see the need for one.
An outside perspective
But how does the alun-alun present a more personal view of its host place? Imagine that a visitor dropped from the sky with a purpose of understanding the square’s position in … well, leave that for the visitor to decide.
And where first did they see but Wonsobo, at the foot of the giant Dieng plateau and scented by the aromas of tea plantations. The visitor is drawn to the square, perhaps tasked with classifying the entire region. But they cannot do so, for they lack the means to discern Gunung Sundoro to the northeast.
The record will thus remain unfinished. But it will show in Wonosobo a site that fulfils many standards demanded of an alun-alun. the masjid, which calls itself Great Mosque Jami Wonosobo, is where it should be, and a banyan tree resides at the square’s heart. So too can one find a paseban pavilion for rest. From here the passer-by can hear the melodies of reed-playing angklung ensembles colour the air with insistent, melancholy tones.
Read more: A few places to explore for the lone traveller who wants a bit of time on the periphery.
The visitor sat there a while and then faded out. No sooner did it vanish than reports told of a similar being materialising some way away on the eastern rim of Madura. Sumenep, to be precise, where the being had already headed to the alun-alun and, snooping around, deemed it a splendid example of the communal locus: a rectangular-shaped park close to the last remaining kraton in East Java.
And at the square’s centre, an area shaded by greenery where one could easily perceive a batik festival occurring. Equally did the taman bunga flower park calm the visitor. They watched peacefully as the Maghrib call to prayer roused supplicants to Masjid Agung Sumenep and its distinct yellow and white shell.
No more did the visitor see, for next they knew, they had appeared in Tuban. Awaiting them on Java’s northeastern coastline was a kota known as Wali City. This place heralded the arrival of Islam across Indonesia.
And no more proof can one find of this spread than at the alun-alun and the attendant Grand Mosque, where pilgrims may visit the tomb of Sunan Bonang, who aided such religious devotion. The visitor also saw banyan trees and dancing fountains alongside a statue of a Duke of Tuban atop his mighty horse. Next followed a simple conclusion: if one seeks the character of a district, seek out its square.
Cultural charter
Very rarely has Ponorogo laid claim to an apparition in its midst. But precisely did this very thing happen one day, when a being suddenly formed on the edge of the town’s alun-alun, which one may know by the stage at its northern end. The bupati lies at the other side of the road. Here, it becomes clear that the alun-alun charts a place’s culture. In a town famed for its Reog traditions, exploration reveals a lion statue in tribute to the dance’s lead character, who wears the head of a feline beast with a peacock feather decoration.
Time spent at Ponorogo’s square will uncover the usual traits of food stalls and odong-odong vehicles in lurid hues. So too will it indicate the town’s Islamic heritage, as evidenced by Grebeg Suro, when the townsfolk come together to celebrate Ponorogo’s heritage. In short, it became clear to the visitor that an alun-alun is where the people go. If you want to find a person, seek them out at the square.
Thus inspired, the visitor evaporated and seemed to head east, where a thing fitting its description surfaced once more on Madura, this time in Pamekasan. Here, the alun-alun shows its splendid mix of verdancy and grandeur. Trees provide shade in the corners, but people’s eyes wander in two directions.
Their gaze first lands on Arek Lancor. This metal structure, perhaps 20 or 25 feet high, bears an attitude of supplication in tribute to the freedom fighters, such as Sakera, who freed Madura from the Dutch colonists.
The striking, flame-like memorial with five curving heads writhes as though charged by electric pulses. It stands between two sites of worship, the second attractor of one’s gaze: the Great Mosque of Asy Syuhada, with its bulbous green roof, and the Church of Mary Queen of the Apostles. Unity, then, is the message sutrmised by the visitor, who watched the start of Eid with accompanying whip dances and tapak getak. But, soon, the visitor left. It had seen enough of Pamekasan.
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Civic pride, the visitor said to itself. Civic pride seems somehow drawn to the alun-alun. After fading from view on Madura, the visitor momentarily blinked into view in Madiun, back in Jawa Tengah, much to the annoyance of observers who like things to run in an orderly fashion.
Coordinates centred elsewhere, the visitor only made a quick pass of the town’s square, but could still perceive much that defined Madiun; distinct takes on angklung, played by a group seemingly attached to a bandstand, settle upon a monument to Colonel Marhadi, a TNI soldier who died in the battle for Kresek. The authorities elected to erect a statue in his honour, and now he stands forever on guard on the square’s southern side. And at night, when the illuminations shine upon the colonel even stronger, he seems to become more at attention, as though commanding the light to await his bidding.
The visitor continued its journey west, a goal achieved by first heading east to Kediri. There it failed to stop. But it did note that the alun-alun could pay tribute to fallen figures of the past. In this case, a statue honoured Major Bismo, a fighter from the city, formerly the kingdom of Doho or Kadir.
And what would an observer have learned thus far? Only this: the alun-alun blends tradition with the present day. The square’s focus shifted from a symbol of royal power to a public, social and cultural area. In other words, the barrier between the sacred and the profane collapsed. Religious rites, such as Eid prayers and the end of Ramadan, consume the same room as sports and annual celebrations. All live side-by-side in the crucible of the square.
Next, and not quite finally, the visitor came to Salatiga. There it did find, close to Stadion Kridanggo, Pancasila Square. Mountainous Gunung Merbabu brooded in the distance, and a lone bridal tree maintained its vigil nearer sea level, some way away. Ascending to the square felt like climbing to a higher plain. Long, thin roads, heavy with constant traffic, fed each compass point. And upon escaping this rush, the visitor entered a far tighter space than similar gathering spots.
The visitor found the usual tributes to local icons. A monument formed of three pillars holding a triangular shape, a globe at its centre, immortalised Brigadier General Sudiarto, Vice Admiral Yosaphat Soedarso and Rear Marshal Agustinus Adisoetjipto, the father of Indonesian aviation.
Harmony and equilibrium
The visitor inferred balance from this structure. Thirty or so ethnic groups inhabit the region around Salatiga, from Sabang to Merauke, and do so in peace. The visitor noted that non-Muslims would help their Islamic brethren implement Idul Fitri prayers at Pancasila. So, too, did it infer that the same logic would apply to other pious acts perpetrated by different creeds. A sense of calm pervaded the square, as though harnessing this acceptance.
Back, then, to Madura. Sampang, this time, to Trunojoyo. This example of a new space, years rather than decades old, shines with the chrome of the new. The plot emphasises openness with cascading seats and performance areas for the multitudes. A tableau at the entrance draws patrons’ curiosity. This statue of a trio of bulls and their riders honours the bovine races synonymous with Pulau Garam. Those who know Madura may think of a similar image in Kamal, further west in Bangkalan.
But for others, the symbolism extends to Trunojoyo, who ravaged the Dutch colonists in the 1600s and whom the Madurese hold in high esteem. The visitor learned a lesson. Neither from Madura nor Java nor Indonesia and with little understanding of concepts such as reverence, it still felt that one may soak up the liminal feelings of the past at a resident square. In so doing, folk may become repositories of history. They keep alive the strong links with a time that helped shape life as they know it.
By now, the visitor had lost its focus. It decided on a final stop in Magelang. The heartland of Java, or so the visitor thought. It was a fitting end to the trip, for at Magelang, one may see many things that give a square its character.
Thus, four places of worship surround the square: the Great Mosque of Magelang, the Church of St. Ignatius, the Liong Hok Bio Temple and the Indonesian Protestant Church. An old banyan tree, so much larger than even the surrounding buildings, commands attention and stands guard next to a statue of Prince Diponegoro, a Javanese prince who opposed Dutch rule and whom the colonists exiled to Makassar.
An old water tower overlooks the stalls and crafts as the square comes to life each day, and faraway Gunung Sumbing, colossal even at this great distance, rests in perpetuity. In short, the visitor declared, here one may see, like in so many other squares, a green open site that binds the present and the past, the sacred and the profane, the devout and the secular. And with that, the visitor vanished a final time, and nothing more did it say on the subject.
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