## The Ghosts of Bukit Duri: A Community Lost and a City's Shame
The river slinks through Jakarta, a brown ribbon tying together a city teeming with life, ambition, and relentless change. But sometimes, that change leaves behind a scar, a raw wound where a piece of the city’s soul was excised. Bukit Duri is one such scar.
The year was 2016. Bukit Duri, a densely populated informal settlement nestled along the Ciliwung River in South Jakarta, was marked for demolition. Officially, the rationale was clear: to normalize the river and mitigate the floods that plagued the city. Homes perched precariously on the riverbank were deemed illegal, a blight on Jakarta's modern aspirations. The reality, however, was far more complex, a tapestry woven with threads of broken promises, economic disparity, and a community's fierce struggle for survival.
What followed was not simply a relocation, but a siege. The term “Pengepungan di Bukit Duri” – literally, the encirclement of Bukit Duri – accurately describes the atmosphere. Armored vehicles, riot police, and bulldozers descended, transforming the bustling neighborhood into a warzone. Residents, many of whom had lived there for generations, were given little choice but to abandon their homes, their livelihoods, and their tightly-knit community.
The official narrative painted the residents as squatters, illegal occupants who were obstructing progress. But the truth was far more nuanced. Bukit Duri wasn't just a collection of shacks; it was a vibrant community. Families shared stories across narrow alleyways, children played soccer in the dust-filled courtyards, and small businesses thrived, contributing to the city's informal economy. It was a place where roots ran deep, where neighbours knew each other by name, and where a strong sense of belonging prevailed.
The promise of resettlement to Rusunawa (low-cost apartments) sounded alluring, a step up from the precarious conditions along the river. Yet, the reality proved to be a bitter pill. The Rusunawa, often located on the outskirts of the city, isolated residents from their former networks, their jobs, and their support systems. The sense of community, the lifeblood of Bukit Duri, evaporated.
The pengepungan wasn't just about physical demolition; it was about the destruction of a social fabric. It raised uncomfortable questions about urban development, social justice, and the price of progress. Who benefits when the poor are displaced? Whose voice is heard when the bulldozers roar?
Today, the riverbank where Bukit Duri once stood is a stark reminder of what was lost. The concrete walls built to “normalize” the river may prevent floods, but they cannot erase the memories of the community that once thrived there. The ghosts of Bukit Duri linger, whispering tales of resilience, resistance, and the enduring struggle for the right to a place called home.
The story of Bukit Duri serves as a cautionary tale for Jakarta and other rapidly developing cities. It highlights the importance of inclusive urban planning, meaningful community engagement, and a genuine commitment to social justice. Only then can progress truly benefit all citizens, rather than leaving a trail of broken lives and shattered communities in its wake. The river may flow on, but the scars of Bukit Duri will remain, a silent testament to a city's forgotten conscience.