SEAToday.com, Jakarta - Tucked beside the restless hum of Gondangdia train station, a small coffee shop waits behind a narrow blue gate, just wide enough for one person to slip through. Inside, the scent of freshly ground coffee lingers in the air, mingling with history. 

Barrels labeled robusta, arabica, and liberica line the walls, their wooden lids worn smooth from years of use. An aging grinder sits at the heart of the shop. Behind it stands an elderly man, his smile warm, his presence steady.

His name is Xu Yilun—now Lunardi Valencie—a man who has spent his life preserving a legacy not of wealth, but of survival. His family’s shop has stood here since the 1970s, a testament to perseverance in the face of relentless adversity. His parents never set out to sell coffee. They had planned to open a grocery store, selling wood, charcoal, and spices. But in Suharto’s Indonesia, being Chinese meant existing within invisible walls.

“The (New Order, ed) government restricted how much Chinese-owned stores could sell,” Lunardi recalls. “So, my father turned to coffee.” It was a choice made out of necessity, but one that proved to be a lifeline. The business flourished just enough to send him and his brothers to school, a rare privilege for many Chinese-Indonesians at the time.

Yet, coffee was never just about profit—it was about finding a way to survive when the system was built to erase them.

For decades under Suharto’s New Order regime, Chinese-Indonesians lived as second-class citizens. They were forced to adopt Indonesian-sounding names, stripping them of their heritage. 

Chinese-language schools were shut down, cutting off generations from their mother tongue. Even the simplest expressions of culture—Mandarin songs on the radio, Chinese characters on shop signs—were banned. Their traditions had to be hidden behind closed doors, their identities carefully muted.

“There was no other choice for the Chinese but to trade,” Lunardi says. But even in business, they faced restrictions. Many were barred from owning land, obtaining government jobs, or participating in politics. 

In moments of political turmoil, they became scapegoats, their shops looted, their homes burned. They were always seen as “outsiders,” no matter how many generations had lived on Indonesian soil.

Through all of this, Lunardi’s family held onto what little they could—this small coffee shop by the train station. It weathered decades of economic shifts and political storms. But in 2012, disaster struck from within. A fire at Pasar Gondangdia tore through the market, reducing their store to ashes.

“I had to stop for two years, but in 2014, I started again,” he says. With nothing but faith and determination, he rebuilt from scratch. Today, he orders five to six kilograms of robusta from Lampung every week. His suppliers? He has never met them. “It’s all built on trust,” he says with a chuckle.

Faith, he believes, has kept the business alive. Divine intervention led him to new suppliers, to the brown packaging that has since become his shop’s signature. The framed photo of President Gus Dur now hangs on the wall, surrounded by red-and-gold ornaments—a quiet tribute to the man who, after Suharto’s fall, lifted the decades-long restrictions on Chinese identity.

And though the weight of history still lingers, Lunardi remains steadfast. The world continues to change, and challenges will always come.

 “Many customers say coffee prices will keep rising,” he muses, glancing at the sacks stacked by the counter. “Hopefully, they stabilize. If not…” He exhales, shaking his head before flashing a small, knowing smile. “We’ll find a way.”

Then, with quiet determination, he turns back to his grinder. The rhythmic hum fills the shop once more, mingling with the scent of roasted beans—proof that even in the face of hardship, some things endure.

Writer: Andi Raisa Malaha Thambas