On the otherwise uneventful night of September 16, 2023, I was hitching a ride on a motorbike home, cruising through South Medan Merdeka’s streets, when a plume of smoke caught my eye in the distance. I heard a siren blaring loudly at the roundabout as a red fire truck rushed to the scene.

“Where do you think it's coming from?” I asked the driver. He shrugged, “Maybe the tourism ministry,” he replied indifferently, then continued toward Thamrin Street. Feeling uneasy, I checked social media. Sure enough, videos of firefighters battling the blaze at the National Museum were already circulating on X.

The next day, I was assigned to cover the incident. The museum grounds were cordoned off, barring me from entering the premises. All I could do was stand outside the gates, relying on a press release WhatsApped by the spokesperson. The statement confirmed that the fire had gutted four rooms, primarily housing replicas in the prehistoric section. Thankfully, the majority of the museum’s collection—especially the newly repatriated artifacts—remained safe in unaffected areas.

Meanwhile, social media erupted in outrage. Posts and comments flooded in, questioning the museum’s safety protocols and the government’s commitment to preserving Indonesia’s cultural heritage. The same questions echoed across platforms: are we genuinely prepared to safeguard these treasures, or are we merely pretending to honour history?

A year later, I found myself pondering this question as I took the MRT to the Hotel Indonesia roundabout before hopping on a Transjakarta bus. My mind buzzed with thoughts of the fire and its lingering impact. After a few minutes, I arrived at Medan Merdeka’s bustling streets that felt eerily familiar, their energy contrasting sharply with the stoic, classical European architecture that surrounds them—a reminder of the area’s colonial past as a hub of Dutch administration. The dichotomy was striking, a metaphor for the uneasy coexistence of progress and neglect in the way we treat our history.

The colonial to post colonial museum

The Indonesian National Museum, known locally as Museum Gajah (Elephant Museum) due to the iconic bronze elephant statue that greets visitors in the courtyard, holds the distinction of being Indonesia's first museum and the largest in Southeast Asia. Its story is intertwined with the country's colonial past, a legacy of centuries under Dutch rule.

The museum’s origins trace back to 1778, when the Bataviaasch Genootschap van Kunsten en Wetenschappen (Batavian Society of Arts and Sciences) planned its establishment. Initially, it was the residence of Jacob Cornelis Radermacher, a governor of the Dutch East Indies. Like many colonial administrators of his time, Radermacher had a penchant for collecting. His displays included memorabilia from the Dutch colonial administration and his personal acquisitions. As his collection grew, the Dutch government officially converted the house into a museum in 1862, and by 1868, it opened its doors to the public.

In its early years, the museum highlighted Indonesia's cultural and natural diversity, albeit through a colonial lens, documenting and displaying the 'exotic' for European audiences. Many artifacts were eventually taken to the Netherlands for study or to be exhibited in museums there, leaving Indonesia with an incomplete record of its own heritage.

After Indonesia declared independence in 1945, the museum, like many colonial-era institutions, underwent a transformation. It was reimagined to celebrate the nation's identity, history, and cultural diversity rather than perpetuate its colonial narrative. Over time, it became a hub for school trips and public education, offering an extensive collection that spanned archaeology, ethnography, numismatics, and geography, with a particular focus on pre-colonial and post-independence history.

This year, the National Museum celebrates a new chapter in its story with its reopening, featuring repatriated artifacts from the Netherlands. These newly returned treasures stand as a testament to Indonesia's ongoing efforts to reclaim its heritage and reframe its narrative for future generations.

The repatriation exhibits

Imagine being sent far away from home, lost to your own people, and put on display in a distant land, cataloged and over time forgotten. That’s the reality for hundreds of Indonesian cultural artifacts, which were sent to the Netherlands during the colonial era, and some are still tucked away in the Leiden Museum. Since Indonesia’s independence in 1949, the country has been persistently knocking on doors—and museums—asking for its treasures to be returned. The first wave of repatriation began in 1972, and since then, the long journey of cultural homecoming has continued, piece by piece, filling the gaps of history.

As I made my way to the repatriation exhibit, my eyes instantly fixated on the sculptures from the 13th-century Singosari Kingdom, each one depicting a major Hindu-Buddhist deity—Bhairava, Nandi, Ganesha, and Brahma. These ancient treasures offer us a rare peek into the kingdom's unique religious mix. But these sculptures aren’t just religious symbols—they’re considered the magnum opus of the era. The fine details, the poses, the symbolism—it all reflects the Singosari Kingdom’s incredible craftsmanship and spiritual vision. Every curve and line captures their sense of balance, power, and harmony, giving us a glimpse into their worldview.

The Singosari Kingdom didn’t just exist in the shadow of history—it laid the foundation for the Hindu-Buddhist traditions that Majapahit would later take to new heights. So, with these sculptures returning home, we can link Singosari to the rise of Majapahit in the 13th and 14th centuries.

The exhibit now guides me to the Pita Maha collection, which reflects the evolution of Balinese art in the early 20th century. The Pita Maha movement, founded in the 1930s by I Gusti Nyoman Lempad, Cokorda Gde Agung Sukawati, Rudolph Bonnet, and Walter Spies, played a significant role in shifting Balinese art from traditional mythological themes to depictions of daily life. At that time Balinese artists had brushed elbows with international modernists.

The collection includes sculptures, tableaux, and everyday items such as traditional woven garments (sarongs), silver filigree vases, jewelry, and ceremonial weapons—each demonstrating the mastery of intricate carving and artistry.

What makes this collection unique is that, while some of these pieces were taken out of Indonesia during the colonial period, they were not exactly "borrowed" in the usual sense. Many works were sent or taken abroad for exhibitions, and some ended up in European museums and private collections. The Pita Maha movement, though initially somewhat underground, played a key role in bringing Balinese art to the international stage. After years of cultural diplomacy, in 2023, the Colonial Collections Committee in the Netherlands recommended the unconditional return of these artworks to Indonesia.

The last collection, located upstairs, is my personal favourite, the jaw-dropping "Lombok Treasure Collection"—a rather ill-gotten stash of 335 gold and silver artifacts looted from Lombok Island in 1894 by Dutch colonial forces. These treasures were swiped after a brutal conflict with the Sasak people, in which hundreds of locals lost their lives. The Dutch, naturally, took their pick of the spoils: jewelry, coins, regalia—all the shiny things that make for a great museum display, in places like the Rijksmuseum.

Seeing these pieces up close was nothing short of eye candy. The intricate engraving, the vibrant gemstones—it’s like getting a peek into the finesse of the Lombok Kingdom, a once-flourishing civilisation now barely mentioned in history books. Having visited Lombok many times, I can attest that, aside from a few graves or temples, little remains to remind us of its former glory. The only downside? No photos allowed. But hey, considering the priceless nature of these treasures, I can’t say I blame them.

The return of these historical items reflect a growing recognition of the need to redress past wrongs and restore cultural heritage to its rightful owners. Meanwhile for Indonesians the return could shed light on the knowledge of the past, therefore the exhibition is called "Kembalinya Warisan Budaya dan Pengetahuan Nusantara" which literally translates into The Return of the Cultural Heritage and Nusantara Knowledge. Because what was lost was not merely the objects but the stories, identities, dialogue, and wisdom that they carried.

What was lost in the fire?

Before heading home, I felt compelled to complete what I had set out to do: visit the area affected by the fire. Making my way to the back of the building, I was met with what seemed to be the National Museum's attempt at accountability—an exhibition titled "Pounding Nekara, Watering the Fire."

The nekara, a bronze drum central to ancient Indonesian cultures, represented more than just sound. Traditionally used to summon communities for collective action, it stood as a poignant metaphor: a call to unite against the threat of destruction—both literal and symbolic—that endanger our shared heritage.

A series of photographs capturing the incident, the firefighters' efforts, and the shell-shocked, exhausted faces of those battling the raging flames lined the walls of the exhibition. Jumbled words and statements from ministers and museum authorities were scrawled across each panel, creating a chaotic backdrop that led to a haunting sight behind a glass wall.

The museum turned the remnant of the fire into an exhibition; you can see piles of dirt, rubble, and rotting wood. Amid this scene of destruction stood a single, striking object—a fire extinguisher. These remnants stand as both witnesses and victims of the fire. Evoking the gravity of a memorial—a sobering reminder of the 817 artifacts lost in the inferno, including artifacts of bronze, terracotta, ceramics, and replicas of prehistoric items. While it took a year to restore and prepare the remaining pieces for display, the incident serves as a harsh wake-up call about the vulnerabilities in safeguarding Indonesia’s cultural assets.

Here, “fire” isn’t just about what physically burns. It’s also the systemic fires of negligence and ignorance that left gaps in governance and preparedness. The museum, housing over 140,000 irreplaceable artifacts, remains inadequately secured. Declaring it a “national vital object” under Indonesian law could bring about stricter protections and funding to mandate for better disaster-preparedness measures, including proper storage and cataloging of high-risk items.

Despite all I've witnessed, the question that brought me here remains unanswered: if Indonesia is serious about repatriating over 400 artefacts from the Netherlands, is hope enough to shield them from the same fate as what was lost in the fire? Romanticising the idea of sowing hope from ashes is poetic, but hope alone doesn’t safeguard heritage—preparedness does. After years of hearing empty promises, it’s hard not to feel skeptical. And yet, I can't shake the quiet wish that this time, it will be different. That this effort won't just be a symbolic gesture, but the beginning of a genuine commitment to preserving what remains, and to protecting what is still to come.