Jakarta hums a different tune during Ramadan. It’s subtly present in the rhythm of the surprisingly predictable traffic, its usual sporadic flow thrown off as the city’s Muslim majority adjust their days around the demands of fasting. Households race against the rising sun to prepare their pre-dawn meals for suhoor. Yet nothing captures this shift more than the moment of Iftar—arriving as the sun glides gently out of view, the fast is uniformly broken across the city like a great exhalation; a synchronous ritual that connects the city’s urbanites with millions across the world, bound by faith and tradition.
Unique to the city, however, is the phenomenon known as the ‘takjil war’, referring to the often competitive hunt for takjil or treats one typically enjoys at the start of an Iftar meal. In Bendungan Hilir (Benhil), home to the annual Bazar Takjil Benhil market, crowds congregate as early as 3 PM and even sooner. The sun’s slanted rays bore down indiscriminately on a colourful motley of office workers wearing plastic lanyards and stiff-collared batik shirts; neighbourhood people nonchalantly dressed in sliders and shorts; as well as children in pyjamas—troops to the metaphorical battlefield.
A yearly tradition in the district, the Ramadan market sees a regular turnout of classic takjil options and West Sumatran desserts like bubur kampiun. Fritters sizzled inside a massive wok, turning empty stomachs with their aroma. Colourful fruit punch sat within translucent containers, tempting the thirsty with their apparent coolness. While the sweet, glutinous rice cakes of lupis and klepon glistened under the sun, their coat of coconut shavings exuded a gentle fragrance.
With hours to spare until the call to prayer, people left the market with a handful of plastic bags brimming with refreshments, treats and side dishes, eager to share them with family and friends. One lady even came prepared with a small trolley to ease her load.
A yearly tradition in the district, the Ramadan market sees a regular turnout of classic takjil options and West Sumatran desserts like bubur kampiun.
Closer to sunset, things were unexpectedly quiet on the Blok M front (at least, as quiet as Blok M can be). Business was unusually slow for the rows of gultik (the district’s signature mutton curry, set on junctions) and sate taichan (chicken skewers served with sambal) stalls that occupy the sidewalks by the Blok M Plaza mall. Cooks slumped on low stools with their phones in hand, waiting for customers who remained absent as the evening progressed.
While office workers hurried home, drivers of ride-hailing services parked their motorcycles in front of Row 9 and along the stretch of Melawai Raya Street. And when the sun finally set in its entirety, some were spotted breaking their fast with arem-arem wrapped in banana leaves, biting into the savoury rice cake in between sweet gulps of flavoured drinks from a passing starling. In quiet concentration, they watched the passing traffic, likely thinking about and dreading the moment they had to resume their work.
It was around Blok M Square that our photographer Priska Joanne finally found traces of the district’s usual crowd. Workers from nearby offices, their shirts rumpled from the day, sat cross-legged at a low communal table that stretched out into the distance; plates of rice and side dishes crowding every inch. With hardly any seats to spare, motorcycles doubled as dining tables—one cradling takeaway meals for two girls in hijabs, their easy rapport suggesting years of friendship.
When the sun finally set in its entirety, some were spotted breaking their fast with arem-arem wrapped in banana leaves, biting into the savoury rice cake in between sweet gulps of flavoured drinks.
Part of the reason behind Blok M’s curious quietude might be found in the people’s preference for Iftar gatherings, with 46% of Indonesians favouring dinners with their family. In the Tohir household—the family behind the catering and private dining service Nadja’s Gourmet and its brick-and-mortar, BODEJA—such an occasion is something they look forward to and deliberately make time for every week in between Ramadan hampers orders, client meetings, office demands and the general need to go out and socialise with friends.
On that particular Tuesday at their home in Pejaten, third-born Nadja (assisted by her older sister Azzahra) was already in the kitchen a couple of hours before sunset, preparing a feast with surplus ingredients from their family catering. “We are big meat eaters, so steak is often on the menu during family dinners. We would slice both prime and secondary cuts, serve them together and share the dish between us. It’s a long-held family tradition that is not necessarily exclusive to Ramadan,” she joyfully shared. “We even named our family group after it: Steak Dibagi Delapan.”
Steak divided into eight, reflecting the number of family members. That includes the four siblings and their mother, as well as the eldest child Rafi’s wife, Dyah, and their two young children—whose excited chatter rivalled the busy clanging of pots and pans in the kitchen.
The steak, cooked medium-rare as the family prefers, sat at the table alongside dishes equally tinted with shared memories. The nasi goreng seasoned with King Lobster fish sauce traced back to their mother’s short course at Blue Elephant, a cooking school in Bangkok. Raw tuna with avocado, lime and a festive salad of leafy greens nodded to their uncle’s Japanese restaurant. And in a bowl, chicken hearts slick with steak drippings revived a childhood staple—the quick, reliable meal their mother turned to after long days at work.
Amid the genial mood, the gap left by the passing of the four siblings’ father a little more than a year ago was subtly felt in the absence of dates, the Iftar staple said to be favoured by the Prophet Muhammad. “Other than Tafi [our youngest], their father was the only one who liked dates. He was a religious man,” reminisced the family matriarch, Damayanti or ‘Ine’. “Memories of him continue to stay with us still, and it’s why we prefer to dine in. Personally, it’s hard for me to revisit restaurants he used to frequent—I would lose all my appetite. At home, at least we share in the privacy of our dining room; and if we cry, we cry together.”
Ramadan has a way of stirring something deep within—a longing for togetherness, anchored in centuries-old rituals like Iftar.
For Muslims far from home, the city’s mosques offer more than a place of worship—they provide solace, a sense of community, and even complimentary Iftar, made possible by neighbourhood donations. Our photographer, Said Agil Sidiki, experienced this warmth firsthand while capturing Iftar at Al-Karomah Mosque in Cipete, a moment that resonated deeply with him as someone living away from his own home in Gorontalo, Sulawesi.
Motorcycle taxi drivers and construction workers to neighbourhood children and the muezzin (who takes care of the mosque) all sat shoulder-to-shoulder on the cool marble floor of the mosque’s terrace, waiting for the sunset to arrive. As soon as the prayer for Maghrib rang out, they snuck in a few bites of fritters before joining in the congregational prayer together, their feet lining the same green prayer carpet.
Ramadan has a way of stirring something deep within—a longing for togetherness, anchored in centuries-old rituals like Iftar. As these photographs reveal, Jakarta is no exception. The relentless pace of life in the metropolis softens, if only briefly, as a quiet sense of community weaves through the city’s streets and mosques. More than just a reflection of its Muslim majority, these moments reveal a different side of Jakarta: one that slows down to make space for connections, offering a rare pause that peels open a gentler dimension to our society, often hidden behind the incessant bustle of the capital.
