Even Pacu Jalur Was Claimed Theirs

Picture this: a longboat race from Riau, deeply embedded in local pride and history, suddenly shows up on a neighbouring country’s tourism site—rebranded, repackaged, and relabelled as their own cultural gem. 

The traditional event known as Pacu Jalur from Riau, Indonesia—a vibrant boat race deeply rooted in the cultural heritage of Kuantan Singingi—has recently been subject to claims by Malaysia as part of their intangible cultural property. This situation has sparked disappointment and frustration among many Indonesians, who see this as yet another example of cultural appropriation that disregards historical origins and local ownership. While it is true that both Indonesia and Malaysia share cultural similarities due to their common Malay heritage, it remains essential to acknowledge the specific regional roots of traditions like Pacu Jalur, which has been officially recognised in Indonesia and passed down through generations with immense pride and ceremonial importance.

Such claims not only threaten the authenticity of local heritage, but they also risk erasing the voices of the communities who have kept these traditions alive for centuries. What’s needed is respectful cultural diplomacy, not opportunistic nationalism dressed as heritage protection.

The Pacu Jalur tradition dates back to the 17th century and originates from the Kuantan Singingi region in Riau, Sumatra. Initially, these long and ornately decorated wooden boats — sometimes reaching lengths of up to 40 metres — were used as a primary means of transport along the Batang Kuantan River, especially by local rulers and village leaders. Over time, what began as a practical form of river travel evolved into a competitive cultural event, especially during important occasions like the celebration of Islamic holidays, royal visits, or traditional harvest festivals.

As centuries passed, Pacu Jalur grew into a community celebration that reflected the values of teamwork, craftsmanship, and honour. Each village would take immense pride in building their own jalur (boats), training their rowers with dedication, and competing not only for prestige but also to strengthen social bonds. Today, the event is a full-blown cultural festival held annually around August to commemorate Indonesia’s Independence Day. It attracts thousands of spectators, national attention, and serves as a symbol of Riau's rich maritime culture — a tradition that is deeply spiritual, artistic, and collective in spirit.

Pacu Jalur is far more than a simple boat race; it is a deeply symbolic cultural ritual that merges spirituality, artistry, and communal pride. Each boat — called a jalur — is meticulously carved from a single tree, often chosen with great spiritual care, and is later adorned with vibrant decorations. The front of the boat is typically sculpted into mythical creatures or sacred animal figures, such as dragons or tigers, symbolising strength, protection, and ancestral power. These carvings are not merely decorative — they reflect the village’s values and hopes, often invoking spiritual blessings for victory and safety.

The costumes worn by the rowers are just as meaningful. Traditionally, they dress in matching colourful uniforms that reflect their village identity and spirit. Some teams incorporate traditional Malay patterns or motifs into their attire, blending performance with cultural heritage. The captain or tukang pacu plays a spiritual as well as strategic role — he doesn’t just steer, but also leads chants and synchronises energy, acting like the heart of the team. The energy on race day is electric, filled with drumbeats, traditional music, and ritual ceremonies to “awaken” the jalur and honour the spirits of the water and ancestors.

At its core, Pacu Jalur sends a message of unity, respect for nature, and the importance of preserving tradition. It teaches younger generations that true strength comes not just from muscle or speed, but from cooperation, respect, and cultural pride — values that are essential in today’s rapidly changing world.

There have been multiple instances in which Malaysia has claimed ownership of cultural elements that are historically rooted in Indonesian local wisdom. Among the most controversial are Reog Ponorogo, batik, wayang kulit, the Pendet dance from Bali, and various traditional cuisines like rendang and tempeh. These elements have long-standing historical ties to specific regions in Indonesia and are deeply embedded in the nation’s cultural and social fabric. For example, Reog Ponorogo is not merely a dance performance; it is a ritual originating from East Java with mystical, political, and historical significance dating back centuries. Similarly, Indonesian batik was officially recognised by UNESCO in 2009 as a Masterpiece of the Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity — an affirmation of its Indonesian roots despite overlapping patterns across Southeast Asia.

What frustrates many Indonesians is not the shared cultural heritage that naturally exists between neighbouring countries, but rather the one-sided formal recognition that often ignores the specific historical and geographical origins of these traditions. These claims feel like a diplomatic slight, especially when accompanied by efforts to patent or internationalise them under a different flag. In this context, cultural appropriation becomes more than a misunderstanding — it becomes a struggle for narrative ownership and a reminder of the importance of preserving indigenous identity on the global stage.

To ensure that cultural claims by other nations over Indonesia’s original heritage do not happen, the Indonesian people must take a more proactive and united approach to preserving, promoting, and protecting their traditional arts and customs. This means not only documenting and registering cultural practices—such as dances, textiles, culinary traditions, and rituals—on national and international platforms like UNESCO, but also living them proudly in everyday life. Culture should not be treated merely as a museum exhibit or festival decoration; it must be woven into the rhythm of daily existence, from the way people speak and dress, to how they teach children and celebrate community milestones. Furthermore, safeguarding culture must be aligned with the foundational philosophy of the nation, Pancasila, especially its emphasis on unity in diversity and the belief in a just and civilised humanity. By rooting cultural pride in values such as mutual respect, religious harmony, and social justice, Indonesians can showcase their rich traditions without falling into narrow nationalism or cultural hostility.

One of the key steps the Indonesian people can take to prevent cultural appropriation or claims by other nations is to strengthen cultural literacy at the grassroots level. This means ensuring that every Indonesian, especially the younger generation, understands the origins, meanings, and significance of local traditions. From the Minangkabau matrilineal system to the wayang stories of Java, and from Balinese temple offerings to Papuan feathered headdresses, these cultural forms must be more than just entertainment—they must be recognised as living expressions of identity. When people know the roots of their culture, they become less susceptible to outside appropriation and more committed to defending it with clarity and confidence.

However, cultural preservation should never be reduced to mere sentimentality or resistance to modernity. It must grow organically alongside societal progress. When traditional values are updated with contemporary relevance—such as turning batik into streetwear, gamelan into digital remixes, or oral folklore into graphic novels—it becomes easier for younger generations to appreciate their culture without feeling detached from their globalised lives. This kind of innovation keeps tradition alive while making it harder for outsiders to claim it as their own.

In doing all this, Indonesians must ensure that their cultural expressions do not contradict the nation's foundational values, especially the first principle of Pancasila: Belief in the One and Only God. This principle does not prescribe a particular religion, but it encourages the nation to recognise spiritual values as central to cultural life. Therefore, traditional rituals, symbols, and celebrations must be approached with respect and sensitivity to religious harmony. It means promoting a culture that honours ancestral wisdom without falling into superstition, and preserving local traditions without marginalising the religious beliefs of others.

Respect for this principle also means ensuring that cultural revival does not reignite old ethnic or sectarian tensions. Indonesia's strength lies in its ability to balance tribal diversity with national unity. As such, revitalising regional arts must always be paired with inclusive narratives that bind Indonesians together across islands, dialects, and beliefs. Culture should be a bridge, not a wall.

At the policy level, collaboration between local communities, scholars, and government institutions is essential. Cultural documentation, digital archiving, and formal education curricula must all be harmonised to build an ecosystem where Indonesian heritage is celebrated and protected. Additionally, international diplomacy must play a role—Indonesia should assertively promote its cultural identity through embassies, tourism boards, and cultural exchange programmes, so the world knows where these traditions truly come from.

The heart of cultural preservation lies in love: a genuine, everyday affection for what makes Indonesia unique. It must be driven not by fear of foreign claim, but by pride in what has been inherited. And in doing so, the Indonesian people uphold Pancasila not just as a political ideology, but as a way of being—where reverence for God, respect for others, and pride in culture walk hand in hand.

Perhaps we need to turn the mirror inward. We say “our culture is priceless,” yet won’t pay artisans properly. We demand authenticity but stream foreign reality shows. We cry foul over stolen dances, but can’t name the last time we attended a village ceremony without posting it as “content.”

Imagine if we stopped being reactive and became proactive. Imagine if Pacu Jalur trended globally not because it was “almost stolen,” but because Indonesia loved it loudly, proudly, and daily. Because schoolkids built toy boats. Because every August, longboats raced not just in Kuantan, but across the country.

Instead, we wait until the cultural ambulance has left the building before we try to resuscitate our identity. We publish angry op-eds and call UNESCO like a panicked parent who forgot their child at the mall.

But culture doesn’t die easily. It waits. It endures. It gives second chances. All it asks is that we stop treating it like a relic and start treating it like a relative—with attention, affection, and occasional updates on Instagram.

If culture were a relationship, we’d be the neglectful partner—ignoring it for years, then throwing a fit when someone else gives it attention. Maybe it’s time we stop gatekeeping culture only when it’s trending, and start embracing it because it’s ours. Not out of fear of losing it, but out of love for what it has always been.

[Bahasa]