Finding Unity in the Heart of Jakarta: A Journey to Istiqlal Mosque
The morning sun was already punishing as I stepped out of my budget hotel in central Jakarta. The air felt thick with humidity and the distinctive blend of street food, motorbike exhaust, and tropical flowers that seems to define this sprawling metropolis. I had a vague plan for the day, but Jakarta has a way of rewriting your itinerary whether you like it or not.
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Why Istiqlal Mosque Caught My Eye
I’ll be honest – Jakarta wasn’t even supposed to be on my itinerary. I’d planned to spend most of my Indonesia trip island-hopping through Bali and Lombok, but a canceled flight and a chance conversation with an elderly Indonesian man at the airport lounge in Singapore changed everything. “You cannot understand Indonesia without seeing Jakarta,” he insisted, showing me photos on his phone of a massive white dome rising above the cityscape. “This is Istiqlal. Our pride.”
That conversation stuck with me. I’m terrible with names, but “Istiqlal” had a musical quality that lodged in my brain. Later, flipping through my guidebook (yes, I still use physical guidebooks – my phone always dies at the worst moments), I spotted it again: Istiqlal Mosque, the largest mosque in Southeast Asia and a symbol of Indonesian independence.
What really grabbed me wasn’t the size, though. It was the story of unity woven into its creation. The guidebook mentioned something about a Catholic architect designing the mosque, and how it stood near a cathedral, symbolizing religious harmony. I’m not particularly religious myself, but I’m a sucker for places that tell a story about people coming together rather than pulling apart.
I almost ditched the mosque visit for a day trip to the Thousand Islands (which, disappointingly, number nowhere near a thousand). But something about that old man’s pride when he showed me the photo made me reconsider. Shopping and beaches would always be there. How often would I get to see Indonesia’s monument to unity?
Arriving at Istiqlal: First Impressions and a Few Missteps
Getting to Istiqlal turned out to be an adventure in itself. I’d confidently told the hotel receptionist I’d take public transport, brushing off her skeptical look. Two hours, three wrong buses, and one extremely patient ojek (motorcycle taxi) driver later, I was finally approaching the mosque.
The first glimpse was worth every sweaty, confused moment of the journey. Istiqlal rises from the urban landscape like some kind of modernist dream – all clean lines and imposing white curves. The main dome hovers above the structure like a perfect half-moon, with smaller domes clustered around it like satellites. I stood there on the sidewalk just staring up, probably looking exactly like the tourist I was trying not to be.
A Moment of Awe at the Architecture
I’m no architect, but there’s something deeply satisfying about Istiqlal’s design. It manages to feel both ancient and modern simultaneously – like it’s honoring traditional Islamic architecture while boldly stepping into the future. The enormous courtyard that surrounds it creates a sense of peaceful separation from the city’s chaos, even though you’re still right in the middle of everything.
My first misstep came almost immediately. I’d dressed for the Jakarta heat in shorts and a tank top, completely forgetting that I was visiting a place of worship. A kind security guard directed me to a booth where they provide proper covering clothes for visitors. I fumbled with the sarong they handed me, trying to wrap it properly while a group of giggling schoolchildren watched my struggle. One brave little girl finally took pity and helped adjust it, giving me a thumbs up when I was finally decent.
“First time in mosque?” she asked in careful English.
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“That obvious, huh?” I replied, and she just smiled.
Walking toward the entrance, I felt oddly conflicted – simultaneously out of place yet somehow welcome. The grounds were busy with a mix of tourists and worshippers, but despite the crowds, there was a tranquility that seemed to defy Jakarta’s perpetual noise. Was I even allowed to feel this connected to a place so different from my own experience? I wasn’t sure, but something about Istiqlal was already getting under my skin.
I remember being surprised by how the traffic noise seemed to fade away as I walked deeper into the complex. Jakarta never really quiets down, but here, somehow, the city’s roar became a distant hum. It felt like stepping into another dimension, one where time moved more slowly and deliberately.
Digging Deeper: The Story Behind the Symbol
Once inside, I joined a small tour group led by a young guide named Fahri. His English was excellent, and his passion for the mosque’s history was infectious. “Istiqlal means ‘independence’ in Arabic,” he explained, gesturing broadly at the cavernous main prayer hall. “We built this after gaining independence from the Dutch to show that Indonesia stands proud as a nation where many faiths can live together.”
The mosque was commissioned by Indonesia’s first president, Sukarno, in 1961, though it took 17 years to complete. What fascinated me most – and I’m not sure if I got all the details right from Fahri’s rapid-fire explanation – was that the principal architect was a Christian named Frederich Silaban. In a world where religious divisions seem to be growing deeper, there was something profoundly moving about a Christian designing one of the Muslim world’s most significant mosques.
Fahri pointed out symbolic elements I would have completely missed. The mosque has 12 columns supporting the main dome, representing the Prophet Muhammad’s birth month. There are five main entrances symbolizing the Five Pillars of Islam. Even the dome’s diameter – 45 meters – has meaning, referencing 1945, the year of Indonesia’s declaration of independence.
I couldn’t help but notice Jakarta Cathedral standing proudly just across the road. The two massive houses of worship – one Islamic, one Catholic – face each other in what feels like a deliberate architectural dialogue. I wondered if this proximity was planned or coincidental. When I asked Fahri, he smiled.
“President Sukarno chose this location on purpose,” he said. “During religious holidays, our parking lots overflow, and we share space. The cathedral uses our parking during Christmas, we use theirs during Eid.”
I’m not religious myself, but I couldn’t help but admire the idea behind it. If only the rest of the world could figure out parking lot diplomacy, we might be in better shape.
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I felt a twinge of disappointment that my basic Bahasa Indonesia wasn’t good enough to speak with some of the older visitors. They sat in quiet contemplation in corners of the mosque, and I imagined they had stories about seeing this place built, about what it meant to a young nation finding its identity. Instead, I had to piece together impressions and half-understood explanations, which is probably why some of the historical details remain fuzzy in my mind.
Exploring the Grounds: Beauty, Crowds, and a Few Challenges
The sheer scale of Istiqlal is hard to convey. The main prayer hall can supposedly accommodate up to 200,000 worshippers, though it wasn’t nearly that crowded during my visit. The space stretches out in all directions, the ceiling soaring overhead, supported by those twelve massive columns. The floor is covered with simple carpets – nothing ornate or flashy – reinforcing the mosque’s focus on unity and equality rather than opulence.
Unlike some religious buildings that overwhelm you with decoration, Istiqlal embraces simplicity. The walls are mostly unadorned, the color palette limited to whites and off-whites. There’s a refreshing lack of ostentation that somehow makes the space feel more spiritual, not less.
A Quiet Corner Amidst the Bustle
I found my favorite spot on the upper level, away from the main tour routes. A small balcony overlooked both the prayer hall and, through a series of arched windows, the Jakarta skyline. The contrast was striking – the peaceful, ordered world inside and the chaotic urban sprawl outside, coexisting within the same frame. I sat there for nearly an hour, watching the interplay of light through the windows as clouds passed overhead, creating shifting patterns on the marble floor below.
An older man joined me at one point, prayer beads clicking softly between his fingers. We didn’t share a language, but he nodded at me and smiled, then gestured toward the view as if to say, “Beautiful, isn’t it?” We sat in companionable silence until he rose for prayer, patting my shoulder gently as he left.
Not all interactions were so serene, though. I nearly tripped over my own feet trying to take off my shoes properly at one entrance, causing a small pile-up of visitors behind me. The attendant seemed torn between amusement and exasperation as he helped sort out the resulting shoe chaos. And despite the mosque’s enormous size, popular areas get crowded, especially around mid-day. I loved the energy of the crowd, but honestly, I also wanted to run away from it at times, especially when a large tour group with matching hats and a guide with a flag descended upon my quiet balcony.
The heat posed another challenge. While the mosque’s design creates natural ventilation, Jakarta’s climate is relentlessly tropical. By early afternoon, I was sweating through my borrowed covering clothes, trying to look respectful while fantasizing about jumping into a swimming pool. The marble floors provided some relief – I noticed locals often sat directly on the cool stone in the hottest part of the day.
Photography presented another dilemma. While photos are permitted in most areas, I was constantly worried about being disrespectful. Is it okay to photograph people in prayer? Should I be taking pictures at all in a sacred space? I ended up taking fewer photos than I normally would, focusing instead on architecture rather than people. In retrospect, I think I was overthinking it – many visitors were happily snapping away – but it felt important to err on the side of respect.
One of my favorite moments came unexpectedly. I was studying the Arabic calligraphy that decorates parts of the interior when a young boy, maybe seven or eight years old, approached me with his mother. He very formally asked if he could practice his English with me. What followed was a delightful, if halting, conversation where he proudly told me facts about the mosque that his teacher had taught him. His mother beamed beside him, occasionally helping with a word. When we finished talking, he solemnly shook my hand and thanked me. That small, genuine interaction brought me more joy than any of the grand architecture.
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What Istiqlal Taught Me About Unity (and Myself)
As the afternoon light began to soften, I found myself reluctant to leave. Istiqlal had surprised me. I’d come expecting an impressive building, a quick tour, and some nice photos. I was leaving with something much less tangible but far more valuable.
In a world that seems increasingly fractured along religious and cultural lines, Istiqlal stands as a quiet rebuke to division. It’s not just in the symbolism of a Christian architect designing a mosque, or the practical cooperation with the cathedral next door. It’s in the feeling of the place itself – the way it welcomes visitors of all backgrounds, the way it balances national pride with universal values.
Jakarta itself is a chaotic, contradictory city – sometimes frustrating, often overwhelming, occasionally magical. Istiqlal reflects a different vision of what Indonesia aspires to be: harmonious, dignified, and united despite differences. I’m not sure if I fully understand what unity means here, but I felt it in small ways: in the schoolgirl helping me with my sarong, in the silent communication with the old man on the balcony, in the proud English practice of a young boy.
Travel always teaches me more about myself than the destination, and Istiqlal was no exception. I realized how quick I am to categorize places and experiences, to think I understand something after reading a paragraph in a guidebook. Istiqlal demanded more from me – more attention, more openness, more willingness to be confused and learn.
If you visit Jakarta, I’d put Istiqlal at the top of your list, but go with the right expectations. It’s not a quick Instagram stop. Give yourself several hours. Go early to avoid both crowds and heat. Dress respectfully from the start (learn from my mistake). Most importantly, talk to people if you can – the official guides are knowledgeable, but it’s the informal conversations that reveal the mosque’s true significance.
As I finally made my way toward the exit, I passed a quote from the Quran displayed on one wall. The English translation read: “O mankind! We created you from a single soul, male and female, and made you into nations and tribes, so that you may come to know one another.” It seemed to capture everything I’d felt that day.
I stepped back into Jakarta’s wall of heat and noise, already missing the peace of the mosque. Will I ever feel this kind of connection again in another place? I’m not sure. But I’m grateful that a canceled flight and an old man’s pride brought me here, to this unexpected lesson in unity in the heart of Jakarta.
And to think I almost went shopping instead.
About the author: Jack is a passionate content creator with years of experience. Follow for more quality content and insights.
