Gatra Priyandita – 17 August 2025 marks the 80th anniversary of Indonesia's independence. Surrounding the commemorations are various discourses on whether Indonesia was colonised by the Netherlands for 350 years, or less than that. Regardless of the answer, traces of colonialism prevail. And the commodification of those traces is perhaps one of the very first steps to understanding the multiple narratives on history in Indonesia today.

The commodification of colonialism is part of a broader trend across postcolonial countries, where visible relics of empire, often in the form of enduring infrastructure, pose a choice: to erase them through neglect or demolition, or to repurpose them for new uses. In Indonesia, the early decades after independence saw leaders such as Soekarno and Soeharto promote a nationalist vision, favouring modernist designs by Indonesian architects. Yet the risk of erasing the colonial past altogether raised concerns that history itself might be forgotten.

From the 1980s onwards, heritage conservation initiatives emerged, seeking to preserve colonial-era buildings while embedding them within narratives of nationalism. Restoration projects multiplied, but the challenge remained: static plaques and written histories struggle to compete for public attention in an era when much of social life unfolds on phone screens. Recognising that people value immersive experiences over textual storytelling, governments and private actors began converting colonial clusters into open-air or "living" museums. This model, visible in Indonesia's Taman Mini Indonesia Indah, Singapore's Battlebox in Fort Canning, and the Netherlands' Archeon, promises visitors not just a history lesson, but a sensory encounter and countless souvenirs they can take home: Instagram-ready shots.

While this approach integrates preservation with the economic demands of tourism, it also risks reducing complex historical narratives to a kind of theme park. The emphasis shifts from engaging with the realities of colonial oppression to offering an aesthetically pleasing, marketable fantasy. In Modernity at Large (1996), Arjun Appadurai refers to a yearning that is not rooted in lived memory as ersatz nostalgia – a longing for a stylised, imagined past where nostalgia and fantasy are reduced to consumption.

In Surabaya, the ghosts of the Dutch East Indies have not merely lingered; they have been revived through commodification in tourism. Wander through the revitalised "European Zone" of Kota Lama (Old Town) or a long-standing ice cream palace in the city, and one is bound to feel the seduction of a colonial past repackaged for modern consumption. Whether through architecture or cuisine, a certain narrative is quietly whispered: the colonial past was not only orderly and elegant, but perhaps even desirable.

In Surabaya today, following the revitalisation of the old town quarter that used to be reserved for the European community, colonial aesthetics have become central to city branding and urban placemaking. While such nostalgia can serve as a tool for historical reflection, its unchecked commodification risks perpetuating colonial myths, erasing uncomfortable histories, and displacing local narratives.

A 'digital postcard' of colonialism

Surabaya's revitalised old town complex comprises four quarters: the European Zone, Chinatown, Arab, and Malay Quarters. Yet it was the erstwhile hub for the Dutch East Indies' European population – uncannily dubbed the "European Zone" – that quickly became a hit due to its stark black-and-white colonial facades, restored buildings, and tourism experiences such as period costume rentals, vintage military Jeep tours, and the influencer-endorsed toerwagen car rides.

After its grand relaunch on 3 July 2024, the European Zone quickly became one of Surabaya's most photogenic destinations. Here, local and domestic tourists don lace dresses or aristocratic Javanese beskap and velvet kebaya, posing against a backdrop that once marked European privilege and native exclusion. The place has been transformed into a stage for colonial cosplay and a theatre of nostalgia.

This performative longing reflects the tendency to reduce a historical site into a glossy, consumable aesthetic. The area, once a colonial enclave of Dutch offices and military officers' houses, has been restored into a site that offers middle-class tourists the fantasy of playing historical elites for a day. For as little as US$2-5, one can rent a costume; for a bit more, a professional photographer guides the experience, somewhat blurring the line between heritage and an accidental state-supported theme park.

While this may seem questionable at first, it could also be viewed as a means for people to exercise agency over the legacy of colonialism. The romanticisation of the colonial era here serves multiple agendas. Economically, it fuels tourism revenues and supports local microenterprises. Politically, it aligns with a nationalist desire to reclaim and repurpose colonial spaces. Yet culturally, it risks perpetuating a dangerous myth: that the Dutch East Indies were cosmopolitan, orderly, and benign – egalitarian, even, considering that the space is now accessible to the general public. In short, a time worth being longed for. The cost of such nostalgia is the erasure of the structural violence, exclusion, and exploitation that defined colonial life for the vast majority of Indonesians.

This transformation is not isolated. Colonial nostalgia has emerged as a potent aesthetic in urban Indonesia, particularly among middle-class members of a generation who never experienced colonisation directly. The new Kota Lama is a vivid example of a manufactured memoryscape that prizes photogenic charm over historical substance.

Source: https://www.newmandala.org/instagramming-colonialism-in-surabaya