A dispatch from the closest point between the Homeland and the Holy Land
By: Agus M. Maksum

One kilometer more.

That is the distance separating “our land” from the holiest point in the lives of millions: the Kaaba.

For the first time in the long history of Indonesia’s pilgrimage—from the days of the Dutch trading posts in Jeddah, through the colonial quarters in Misfalah, to the sky-high seasonal hotels—we will own a piece of land in the heart of Mecca. Not renting. Not borrowing. Owning.

President Prabowo floated the idea in a meeting known only to a handful of insiders. The setting was Riyadh: formal in protocol, personal in tone. Across the table sat Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman, the man charting Saudi Arabia’s new course.

What followed was not just diplomacy. It was history in the making for generations of Indonesian pilgrims—many of whom now face waiting lists as long as 47 years.

MBS received the proposal like a brother welcoming distant kin—not with demands, but with ideas. What he offered in return was not just approval, but land. Official. Strategic. Soon after, the Kingdom rewrote its own laws, lifting the prohibition on foreign ownership in the Holy Precinct.

The new regulation did not emerge in isolation; it reflected economic logic and spiritual urgency. Yet, behind closed doors, as one senior official at Saudi’s Ministry of Investment admitted, “Indonesia was the main reason this clause was finally pushed through.”

And this is where diplomacy touched the Kaaba—not with speeches or multilateral rhetoric, but with land.

Danantara: A Name for Ownership

Indonesia has entrusted the project to Danantara, its state-owned strategic sovereign fund. The agency is now surveying eight parcels of land—from Rusaifah to Ajyad, from Syari’ Manshur to Aziziyah.

Some plots are as close as 400 meters from the Grand Mosque. But the most feasible lie one to two kilometers away.

Danantara sees itself not merely as an investor, but as custodian of history. Its masterplan envisions 32 towers, 25,000 rooms, a high-speed rail link to the Haram, a mini-hospital, even a university and a training center for religious practice.

This will not be just housing. It will be a small city for Indonesian pilgrims—a “second homeland” nestled among the hills of Mecca.

From Visas to Vision

For generations, the hajj has been an act of worship. But it has also been an industry. Indonesia spends more than 20 trillion rupiah annually on hajj logistics. Ninety percent of that money flows abroad. Almost none comes home.

The “Kampung Haji”—the Hajj Village—is designed to change that.

It is not a one-season project. It is planned as a year-round community: for hajj pilgrims, umrah travelers, and the diaspora. Eventually, it could host schools, medical services, culinary centers, even incubators for halal entrepreneurship.

Until now, Indonesia has dealt with visas. Now, it is shaping a vision.

A Note from One Kilometer Out

I imagine, someday, a grandmother from Nganjuk—who once had to endure long bus rides from distant hotels and crowded alleys—will wake in an air-conditioned room, eat Madurese porridge at an Indonesian cafeteria, then step onto a train that delivers her to the Haram in three minutes.

Or a student from Solo, studying Arabic at Umm Al-Qura University, invited by his Saudi professor to a discussion at the Indonesian Hajj Village. There he will find that Indonesia’s presence in Mecca is not only in numbers, but in civilization.

Perhaps this is what Sukarno meant: to stand equal, to sit equal, to bow in equal devotion.

Conclusion: We Are No Longer Tenants

The Hajj Village is a new face of Indonesian diplomacy: quiet in the media, yet enduring in history.

While other nations compete for influence through military bases, Indonesia has chosen to build a spiritual base.

And for the first time, we will not merely be guests in the Holy Land.

We will have our own address.
And its distance?
Just one kilometer from the Kaaba.