Multidisciplinary artist Metta Setiandi grew up in a Chinese Indonesian family, surrounded by the rhythms of her parents’ long-standing shop, Toko Tian Long, and within the tight-knit community of Glodok, Jakarta’s historic Chinese Indonesian enclave. Now 36 years old, those roots have become the pillar of her life, her creative practice spanning photography, ceramics, and calligraphy, and how she commands herself within the community and beyond.
When she opened MET Glodok last year, a hybrid studio, café, and community space on Jalan Kemenangan, she did so with a clear intention: to invest in a neighbourhood she believes is worth nurturing, even if others don’t always see it the same way.
At her space, we talk more about her upbringing in the historic enclave, from the ways the neighbourhood has moulded her, the transformations she observes, and how MET Glodok has emboldened her to step further into her calling—to honour the past, speak to the present, and play a part in shaping Glodok’s future. This interview has been concised and edited for clarity.
MANUAL (M): Many who encounter you in Glodok say you have an approachable presence and have a natural ease in connecting with people. Have you always been this way?
Metta Setiandi (MS): I think I’ve always been good at operating like an extrovert, but I definitely need time to recharge. There was even a period when I turned quiet and only wanted to talk to a few people. Now, it’s different. I don’t have the same amount of time to be introspective like before. All that energy, it’s now here—inside MET.
Having new people come in, new energy and new friends fuels me. When I wake up, I feel like I’m showing up. Not just for myself, but for this calling, and for the people who are showing up for me. It’s all about action and responding more, because I’ve realised the energy comes from the people: the interaction, that mutual feeling when someone shares something with me. Even if the space is tiny, they still want to come—I still don’t get it, but it moves me.
M: Has anyone ever advised you against opening MET in Glodok?
MS: Some people in the neighbourhood have asked, “Why not open somewhere else?” And I always say to the aunties, “Ci, why don’t we make Glodok lively again?” One of them was even thinking of selling her house in [Glodok], and I told her, “Why not open a small stall here instead? This place is a blessing.”
People tend to think we’d be doing better outside of Glodok, and there are people who would say, “It’s not your responsibility to do what you’re doing here. Don’t get too fixated on this place”. And I’ll say, “Thanks, but I don’t feel like I’m trying to revive anything.”
At the same time, there are many who encourage me to stay here. Practitioners, institutions, even people from outside Jakarta—they come here, connect with MET, and feel a sense of familiarity. Some of them even say they want to start something like this in their own communities. And I say, “Go for it. Copy everything you see here.” I’m an open book, there’s no secret to what I’m doing.
“I don’t have the same amount of time to be introspective like before. All that energy, it’s now here—inside MET.”
M: Was there a significant moment growing up here in Glodok that, in retrospect, shaped your craft and who you are as a person?
MS: I think I was still in elementary school, but I remember this one family gathering where everyone was shouting and arguing. That kind of loudness felt normal at the time, and I don’t think any of us really understood the significance of that moment. Growing up, Chinese New Year celebrations have always been the time when everyone showed up, but after that fight, it turned quiet. Some of my family members didn’t come—it was terrible, and this went on for a few years.
From that moment on, I promised myself: no matter what, I want to see my family come together again. I began taking pictures of my family during festive celebrations and rituals, because I just feel when people are together, they laugh—and when they laugh, everything feels okay again. Maybe in a way, I’m still healing from that trauma.
M: Some of the shop owners we spoke to in Glodok mentioned that many of the younger generations aren’t interested in continuing the family business. Do you feel the same? What’s your take on why that might be?
MS: This situation isn’t unique to Glodok—family businesses are among the most complex and secretive enterprises out there. Why? Because it’s not just about building something new; it’s about continuing a legacy, and that takes wisdom. Family businesses that survive today are run by the people who are capable of facing not just the business side of things, but the whole family dynamics, history, and emotion that comes with it.
People often assume it’s easy to take over a family business. It’s not. You need to understand its roots—the why behind it all. For me, a shop is like a museum; it reflects who you are. Tian Liong has been around for nearly a century, and every product we carry is carefully chosen. That’s not just retail—it’s curation. It takes taste. It takes people skills.
So no, it’s not just about “continuing the business.” Some third-generation might not want to go that deep, and that’s okay. I always say: if your roots are strong, you won’t be shaken by the wind. As for me, I wasn’t pressured to continue the family business, but I show up every day doing what I do. That’s the only way to make my parents and people around me understand.
M: What’s the biggest shift you’ve noticed in Glodok over the years?
MS: Change doesn’t always feel drastic when you’re caught up in daily life. But when you stop to reflect, you realise the biggest shift is that we’re losing people. The familiar faces I grew up with are gone. And if you reflect more, everything is evolving. The architecture, the infrastructure—just look at how much Jalan Pancoran has changed over the years. Even the food doesn’t taste the same anymore.
The truth is, there’s no single moment that defines this shift—it’s a mix of many things. I’m 36 and still feel like I know so little. Imagine the older generation. They’ve lived through it all—from a time with no TV to now, when our lives are ruled by smartphones. But for me, the absence of people hits the hardest. It reminds you how short life really is.
Still, that doesn’t mean there’s no hope, and that’s what we’re doing at MET. We’re not trying to preserve or bring back Glodok to its former liveliness. Sure, the people who come now might not be as many, but the quality of people showing up is different. It’s amazing that this place is attracting new souls who are deeply, genuinely invested in Glodok itself. That’s who I now see as our new family.
Maybe one day, people will see Glodok as more than just ‘Chinatown’, because it is so diverse. I believe that the most honest way to show the spirit of the neighbourhood is through that diversity.
“[Glodok] is also a reflective neighbourhood—when you’re here, you see yourself more clearly and start to understand what you’re searching for.”
M: Talking about MET’s walking tour, did you discover anything interesting about Glodok from the participants?
MS: I think every group is always special. I try as much as I can to get to know the participants. Even before we begin the tour, I always ask, “Is there a particular angle or question you want to explore?”
One of our participants was a man from Montreal, around 70 years old. He came all the way from Tawangmangu, Solo, and specifically sent us a message on Instagram to join the tour. On that day, one of our stops included a prayer ritual, and he said to me, “Oh Metta, now I’m thinking of my late wife. Maybe I should do one more round for her.” I asked, “What happened?” He said, “She passed away two years ago. Way too soon.” I replied, “You know what, after we’re done with the tour, let’s go back to the temple. I’ll walk with you again. Wait for me, okay? I want to light a candle for your wife.”
So, in the end, we went back to the [Toa Se Bio] temple again. He later shared that they had been together for 15 years and even built a joglo house together. We repeated the ritual and lit a candle for her. That vulnerability is so powerful. People come here, find peace and get to reflect on their lives—in the end, it’s not just about our story.
M: Growing up in Glodok, how does that inform what being Chinese Indonesian means to you?
MS: This is such an interesting question, but I think the more important one is: what does it mean to be yourself? I consider myself lucky that I never spent too much time questioning what being Chinese Indonesian meant. I practically grew up in the surroundings of Glodok, so I didn’t really feel any difference. I only became aware that I was Chinese when someone catcalled me on the street—“Amoy, amoy.” (‘Amoy’ is a derogatory term for a Chinese Indonesian girl).
But I understand how complicated this topic is. Even today, some families still struggle with matters like intermarriage, which I find outdated. These differences need to be talked about, and thankfully, our generation is more open to having those conversations.
Having said that, we have seen people coming [to MET] who still feel imprisoned in their own skin—there are even those ashamed of being known as a child raised in Glodok. So I think this isn’t just a conversation about being Chinese Indonesian. It’s a bigger, broader discussion that our generation needs to have. We can’t let ourselves be confined again. I want more people to speak up and own their stories.
“Maybe one day, people will see Glodok as more than just ‘Chinatown’, because it is so diverse.”
M: You brought up the symbolism of ‘gate’ in your life, and how it is especially relevant in the context of the neighbourhood’s history. Can you tell us a bit about that?
MS: One of my biggest fears with MET since the beginning was to open the gate, physically and metaphorically. I grew up in a shop where there were all kinds of doors—rolling doors, sliding ones—and I never really understood why we needed so many. Later I realised [the impact] ties back to the community I grew up with, particularly during ’98.
But I also learned, it’s not just about ’98. It’s also about the years before, where so much of our ancestors’ lives just vanished. This loss of history creates a constant feeling of never truly having a “home.” You always feel like you’re just passing through. For me, this sense of security gets represented through symbols such as houses and gates.
So when MET was about to open, I felt so unsettled. I remember getting really upset when the gate was slightly ajar and a flower board fell. I was furious. Then I asked myself, why did that trigger me so much? And that’s when I realised—the gate made me feel safe, and opening it required courage. Not just from me, but from the people who entered MET as well.
At some point, I said to myself: just try. If you don’t open it, you’ll never know. Little by little, this feeling of openness started to come, and I slowly began to heal. Then I realised—once one gate opens, another has to be made. The people who come to MET, that’s the soul of MET. These people are my next gate, because the only way I feel protected now is through what we’re building here.
M: What’s one thing you want to share about Glodok that people need to know about?
MS: The resilience of the people. No matter what others say about the neighbourhood, it takes wisdom to truly understand Glodok. It is also a reflective neighbourhood—when you’re here, you see yourself more clearly and start to understand what you’re searching for. I see this in the people who visit MET. The ones who stay, who listen, who want to be part of the space—these are the ones shaping Glodok’s future.
Maybe those who come in now will be the ones to carry Glodok forward, and we have to be able to embrace the change. And for those who left, I hope they return and see Glodok with new eyes. What we’re building at MET has started to feel like a quiet pull—like a magnet that draws people back to Glodok. Some visitors have even said, “If you weren’t here, I wouldn’t have thought about returning to Glodok.” That kind of connection is powerful.
Every time we open our doors, it feels like blessings come pouring in. I believe every single thing we do today will eventually make sense, and I hope MET will be a place to remember our lives today through these moments.
