Shin Tae-yong, The Jakmania and the Road to Bantul: When Indonesian Football Tries to Reopen Its Doors to Away Supporters

3:30 PM, Western Indonesian Time. The pitch at Sultan Agung will be as hot as a cast-iron pan just taken off the stove, and in the eastern stand, a streak of orange will begin to stretch out very early. Not the orange of the home side. That is the color of The Jakmania, the largest organized supporters' group of Persija Jakarta, the people who have just received news they had been waiting four years for: they are once again allowed to follow their club to away grounds, legally, in an organized way, and without having to hide behind neutral banners. I have stood in many away supporter sections in many different countries, from Kazan in 2026 to the derbies in Shanghai that I observe as a training-ground watcher. But there is a kind of emotion that I only feel clearly when standing among people who have just been given back the right to follow their club: it is not pure joy. It is joy mixed with a little suspicion, the feeling of someone who has just been let out of a room after a long time locked away, and who is not sure whether the door will close again behind them. The match between PSIM Yogyakarta and Persija Jakarta, in the fourth round of the 2026-2027 Indonesian Super League season, is scheduled for October 10, 2026. It is a small milestone in sporting terms, but it is a notable milestone in cultural and governance terms. In his pre-match remarks, Persija coach Shin Tae-yong sent a special message to The Jakmania, who were preparing to make the trip to Bantul, where PSIM is based. He spoke of ethics, of shared safety, of mutual respect. He did not speak of victory. And that is precisely the point worth pausing on. I always have a habit of reading the data sheet before watching the match footage, a habit I formed on those Tuesday mornings at the Pudong base in Shanghai, where I counted every shot of a number 7 over ten consecutive training sessions. That habit taught me that a small number, carefully recorded, often tells a more accurate story than a large statement. And in the case of this match, the small number worth noting is not on the scoreboard. It is in the line stating that the away-supporter ban has been officially revoked by i.League and PSSI. To understand why that line matters, we need to step back a little into history. Indonesian football is one of the most passionate football nations in Southeast Asia, and also one of the football nations that has paid the heaviest price for that passion. The Kanjuruhan disaster in October 2026, when a match at the Kanjuruhan stadium in Malang ended in tragedy with hundreds of deaths, has become a scar that cannot fade in the collective memory of this country's football. After that disaster, regulations on stadium safety, on crowd control, and on away-supporter travel were tightened in a way never seen before. The away-supporter ban was one of the direct consequences of that period. For many seasons, away fans were prevented from entering stadiums to follow their club, or were only allowed in under extremely strict conditions. For a group like The Jakmania, this meant losing a part of their identity. Because for an organized supporters' group, following the club to away grounds is not just about watching football. It is a ritual, a way of asserting existence, a way of saying to the world that we are here, and we are still here. When i.League and PSSI officially revoked the ban, they did not just change a rule. They gave back to Indonesian football a part of its soul. But accompanying that revocation was a phrase I read over and over: supervision is still carried out strictly. This is the model I call conditional liberalization. The door is open, but there is someone standing guard beside it, and that guard is watching every footstep that crosses the threshold. In that context, Shin Tae-yong's message ceases to be a pre-match courtesy statement. It becomes a compliance signal, a way for the club to manage regulatory and security risk through public messaging. He is not an ordinary coach in Indonesia. He is a former national-team figure, a man whose authority extends beyond the club, and that authority grants him a special deference from the media. When a man like him speaks of ethics and shared safety, people listen in a different way than when a federation official speaks. What is notable is that Shin Tae-yong chose not to speak about his team's three-match winning run. He chose not to promise a fourth win. He chose not to speak about where Persija stands in the table. Instead, he spoke about the supporters who would travel with the club, about their responsibility, and about how they could give extra strength to the players. It is a deliberate choice, and in my profession, deliberate choices by coaches often tell more than what they say directly. There is one small detail in his message that I want to keep: the way he calls the players our players, and the way he places mutual respect before everything else. This is the language of a man trying to build a united front, a homogeneous bloc among coach, players, and supporters. In a period when results are positive, building that bloc is a way of protecting the achievement against possible shocks. Because in football, the only thing that can break a winning streak is not always a stronger opponent. Sometimes, it is an incident in the stands. Now, let us speak of the sporting part, the part I always want to begin from data. Persija Jakarta arrives in Bantul on a run of three consecutive wins. Of those three matches, two were wins against teams described as last season's strongest: Borneo FC 1-0, and Persib Bandung 2-1. This is the only result-level information the article provides, and it deserves careful analysis. Both the 1-0 and the 2-1 are narrow scorelines. This means Persija won, but did not win in an overwhelming way. They won in matches where the goal margin was only one. In modern football, when we speak of a team capable of game management, we usually speak of the ability to hold a fragile lead, the ability to slow the game down when needed, and the ability to keep the match from slipping out of their hands. Narrow scorelines against strong opponents are a sign of that kind of team. I have followed many teams with a similar profile. They are not the teams that score the most goals in the league. They are the teams that know how to take points in difficult matches, know how to endure pressure, and know how to turn a single chance into a decisive goal. This kind of team often does not produce fiery matches, but they often find themselves high in the table at the end of the season. The problem is that to sustain that style, they need a very high level of tactical discipline, and they need a little luck in the decisive moments. There is one point that must be made clear here: the article provides no process data. No expected goals, no pass counts, no pressing metrics, no possession share. This means we cannot know whether these three wins are the result of a good process, or the result of a little luck in finishing and a little excellence from the goalkeeper. This is an important information gap, and I will return to it later. What we know is that Persija has a three-match winning run, and two of those were against strong opponents. That is enough to say they are in good form. But three matches is a very small sample. In statistics, a sample of three data points is hardly enough to conclude anything about a long-term trend. A team can win three matches in a row because they are genuinely strong, or because they got lucky over a short period. The difference between these two possibilities can only be distinguished by process data, which we do not have. There is one name mentioned in the article, and I want to give it special attention: Alexander Jeremejeff. He is mentioned as the team's attacking reference point, the one around whom his teammates orbit. The phrasing and his teammates in the article imply that Jeremejeff is the focal point of the attacking structure, the one for whom Persija's playing system is designed to serve. This is a notable signal, because it suggests a possible single-point dependency. In football, when a team depends too much on one attacking player, they become vulnerable to two kinds of risk: injury risk, and the risk of being neutralized by the opponent. If Jeremejeff is absent, or if he is shut down in a specific match, the team can lose its main source of goals. This is a tactical risk that any coach must consider, especially when the schedule becomes dense. However, caution is needed when drawing this conclusion. A player being mentioned as a reference point does not necessarily mean the team depends on him. It may simply be the way the article chooses to tell the story, or the way the coach chooses to emphasize the role of an important player. In my profession, I have learned to distinguish between a statement and a fact on the pitch. And in this case, the facts on the pitch are not described in enough detail to draw a firm conclusion. Another factor that needs to be brought into the analysis is the change in kickoff time. The match was moved from the evening slot to the afternoon slot, specifically 3:30 PM Western Indonesian Time. The article only says this was done for certain considerations, without specifying what those considerations are. In Indonesia's tropical climate, moving a match to the afternoon slot has significant tactical implications. In the afternoon, temperature and humidity are usually higher than in the evening, and this directly affects the physical intensity of the players. Sports physiology research shows that in hot, humid conditions, a team's ability to sustain high pressing intensity is significantly reduced. Players dehydrate faster, heart rates rise faster, and recovery between plays shortens. This means that an afternoon match in a tropical region tends to be played at a slower tempo, with less pressing and more breaks. And this can benefit the away side, especially an away side with a tendency to defend and counter. A team that plays compact and waits for chances will be less harmed by the heat than a team that tries to press high across the pitch. Because the high-pressing team needs more energy, and energy is the scarcest resource in hot, humid conditions. Of course, this is an inference based on general sports physiology knowledge, not on specific data from this match. I do not know what style Persija plays, and I do not know what style PSIM plays. But if we assume that Persija, with a profile of three narrow wins, is a team that plays control and game management, then the move to the afternoon slot may not be a disadvantage for them. It may even be an advantage, because it reduces the home side's ability to impose a high tempo. But there is another possibility to consider. The kickoff change may not be a tactical decision, but a risk-management decision. In a context where the away-supporter ban has just been revoked and supervision is still carried out strictly, controlling the timing and flow of supporters becomes more important than ever. An afternoon match may be easier to control in security terms, because it allows the authorities to deploy and withdraw in daylight, and it may reduce risks associated with large nighttime gatherings. This is why I am always careful about assigning tactical meaning to administrative decisions. In many cases, what looks like a tactical decision is actually a logistical decision, and vice versa. The only way to tell them apart is field observation, and in this case, I do not have that opportunity. I can only record what the article says, and flag the information gaps that need to be filled. Now, let us speak of the aspect I consider most important in this story: the return of away supporters and its meaning for Indonesian football. This is the aspect I want to spend the most time on, because it goes beyond the scope of a specific match. In football, away supporters are part of an ecosystem. When they are allowed to follow their club, they bring a series of changes. First, they change the atmosphere of the match. A stadium with two opposing supporter groups always has a different atmosphere than a stadium with only one supporter group. Second, they change the nature of home advantage. When away supporters are present, home advantage is no longer an absolute advantage. The home side still has the advantage of familiarity with the pitch, the grass, the habits, but they lose part of their psychological advantage. Third, they change the commercial value of the match, because a match with away supporters usually attracts more attention, more views, and more commercial activity. With a group like The Jakmania, these changes are amplified. The Jakmania is one of the largest and most organized supporter groups in Southeast Asia. They are not just people who come to the stadium to watch football. They are a community, with rituals, songs, banners, and their own identity. When they follow their club to away grounds, they bring an entire culture with them, and that creates a different experience for everyone present. From a commercial perspective, the presence of The Jakmania at an away ground is an opportunity for the host club. A match involving Persija usually attracts a larger audience, and that means revenue from tickets, from merchandise, and from other commercial activities can increase. This is one of the reasons why clubs in Indonesia often want Persija in their fixture list, despite the security challenges it brings. But the return of away supporters also carries risk. And this is where I need to speak of the Kanjuruhan disaster once more, because it is the unavoidable context of any discussion about stadium safety in Indonesia. The Kanjuruhan disaster in October 2026 reshaped how Indonesian football views crowd control. It created a collective memory of what can happen when a crowd loses control, and that memory still exists in every decision related to stadium safety. This explains why the revocation of the away-supporter ban was carried out cautiously, with strict supervision accompanying it. This is not a complete liberalization. This is a conditional liberalization, a step taken with one eye toward the past. And in that context, every match with away supporters becomes a test, an opportunity to prove that Indonesian football has learned its lesson. Shin Tae-yong's message needs to be read in this context. When he speaks of ethics, of shared safety, of mutual respect, he is telling The Jakmania that they do not only represent themselves. They represent a movement, and their behavior will be seen as the behavior of that entire movement. If they behave well, they open the way for others. If they behave poorly, they may close the door that has just been given to them. This is a form of collective responsibility that I find familiar. I have witnessed similar forms of responsibility in many different places. In the Suzhou bubble in 2026, when I lived with the Shanghai SIPG team for forty days, I saw that in a closed environment, the behavior of each individual affects the entire collective. A player who does not follow the rules can cause the whole team to lose an opportunity. And that creates a social pressure, a self-regulation, that no rule can create. In the case of The Jakmania, that pressure is amplified by media attention. Indonesian football has a huge fan base, and a corresponding amount of media. Every act of a supporter, good or bad, can become a national story within hours. This creates a double pressure: the pressure to behave well, and the pressure to be seen behaving well. And sometimes, these two pressures can conflict with each other. Now, let us speak of the aspect I call the misunderstanding from outside. When a match like PSIM versus Persija is mentioned in international media, it is usually framed in one of two ways. The first is framing it as a story about the passion of Southeast Asian supporters, with images of crowds, flags, and songs. The second is framing it as a story about security risk, with concerns about violence and memories of disaster. Both framings miss the most important thing. They miss the truth that a football match is a complex event, with many layers of meaning, and with many voices. They miss the truth that behind every security decision is a person, an official, a police officer, an organizer, trying to balance protecting people and letting football happen as it should happen. And they miss the truth that behind every supporter is a personal story, a reason to follow their club to another city, and a belief that it matters. I learned this on the night in Kazan in 2026. When I stood in the Korean supporter section and watched their team beat Germany, I saw that the story was not about the scoreline. The scoreline was only part of the story. The real story was about a fifty-four-year-old man named Park Jae-won, who knelt down and kissed the grass and told me that it had been sixteen years since a night like this. That is the story of time, of patience, and of the belief that one day, what you are waiting for will come. When I think of The Jakmania and their trip to Bantul, I think of similar stories. I think of the people who waited for years to follow their club once again. I think of the people who kept old tickets, old scarves, old memories, waiting for the day when they could be used again. And I think of the young people, those who never had the chance to follow their club to an away ground, and who will have that chance for the first time. This is why I believe this story matters more than a football match. It matters because it speaks of a community reasserting its existence. It matters because it speaks of a football nation trying to heal a wound. And it matters because it speaks of a process that all of us who love football can understand: the process of finding again what was lost, and trying to protect it from being lost again. Now, let us return to the sporting part and speak of the risks. Because if I only speak of the emotional and cultural aspects, I will not have done my job. My job is to look at all aspects, including the uncomfortable ones. The biggest risk in this match is not sporting risk. It is safety and governance risk. Persija's three-match winning run is an encouraging achievement, but it rests on a small sample. If Persija loses this match, they still have a long season ahead. But if an incident occurs in the stands, the consequences can go beyond the scope of one match. It can affect the entire away-supporter policy, and it can cause the ban to be re-imposed. This is a form of systemic risk. In finance, we call it the risk that a small event can cause large consequences through a chain reaction. In this case, a small incident at one match can cause a chain reaction, leading to the revocation of a policy that many fought to achieve. This is why Shin Tae-yong's message matters so much. It is not just an ethical appeal. It is part of a risk-management strategy. The second risk is tempo and weather risk. The move to the afternoon slot can reduce the intensity of the match, and that can affect both teams in different ways. If Persija is a counter-attacking team, a slower tempo can benefit them. But if they are a control team that needs to impose its tempo, a slower tempo can be a disadvantage. Again, there is no data to draw a conclusion, but this is a factor to be monitored. The third risk is dependency on one player. If Jeremejeff is Persija's main source of goals, then his presence and form are an important factor. If he is absent, or if he is shut down, the team can struggle to create chances. This is a risk I have seen in many teams, and it usually only becomes clear when the team struggles. The fourth risk is expectation risk. The article sets a clear expectation: Persija has a chance to extend its winning streak to four. This is a framing that creates an expectation benchmark. If Persija wins, they meet the expectation. If they do not win, they fail to meet it. And in football, failing to meet an expectation usually leads to stronger reactions than an ordinary draw or loss would cause. This is a form of risk I call the risk of a created expectation. What is notable is that Shin Tae-yong himself tried to minimize this risk by not speaking of victory. He focused on ethics and safety, not on results. This is a smart communication strategy, because it shifts attention away from results and directs it to behavior. If the match goes well in safety terms, that is a success, regardless of the result on the pitch. And if Persija does not win, the attention has been directed elsewhere. Now, let us speak of what I call the next internal signal. This is the part where I try to make a judgment about what will happen next, based on what I have analyzed. I do not make predictions about results, because football results are unpredictable. But I can point out the signals to be monitored. The first signal is supporter behavior. This is the most important signal, because it will determine whether the new policy is maintained. I will monitor the post-match reports, both from the league and from the police, to see whether any incident occurs. If no incident occurs, that is a positive signal for the entire Indonesian football nation. The second signal is Persija's process data. When data on expected goals, passes, and possession share is published, we will be able to assess whether their three-match winning run is sustainable. If the data shows they are performing better than their results, that is a positive sign. If the data shows they are performing worse than their results, that is a warning sign of possible regression. The third signal is Jeremejeff's availability. If he is present and scores, that is a good sign. If he is absent, we will have a chance to see whether Persija can create goals without him. This is a test of squad depth. The fourth signal is scheduling decisions. If more matches are moved to the afternoon slot, that may be a sign that security factors are becoming more important in scheduling. This is a trend to monitor, because it can affect the quality of matches and the experience of supporters. Before finishing, I want to speak of one thing I always try to remember in my work: the pitch never lies, only the observer tells the truth. This means that what happens on the pitch is the final truth, and my job is to record that truth as faithfully as possible. But it also means I must admit when I do not know something, and when I can only speculate. In the case of this match, there are many things I do not know. I do not know how Persija will play. I do not know how PSIM will play. I do not know whether any incident will occur in the stands. I do not know whether Persija's three-match winning run is sustainable. I only know what the article says, and what I can infer from it. But there is one thing I know for certain: this story matters. It matters because it speaks of a process that many football nations around the world are going through, the process of balancing protecting the safety of supporters and allowing them to live their passion to the fullest. This is a difficult process, and there are no easy answers. But it is a necessary process, because football cannot exist without supporters, and supporters cannot exist without freedom. I think of the people who will travel on the train to Bantul. I think of the people who will wake up early, put on their orange shirts, and begin a journey they have waited years for. I think of the people who will sing in the stands, who will wave flags, who will cry if their club wins, and who will be silent if their club loses. And I think of the people who will stay home, watching on television, and wishing they could be there. This is why I write about football. Not for the scorelines, not for the titles, but for the people. For their stories, for their beliefs, for what they are willing to do for something that to an outsider may seem meaningless. This is what I try to record, and this is what I hope will continue to be recorded, in Indonesia and everywhere in the world. When the kickoff whistle sounds at 3:30 PM, there will be many things happening at once. There will be a football match, with two teams trying to win. There will be a safety test, with those responsible trying to protect people. There will be a cultural moment, with a community reasserting its existence. And there will be a story, a story about reopening a door that has been closed too long. I will follow that story. Not as a fan, but as an observer, a beat keeper, someone trying to understand what is happening and why it matters. Because I believe that stories like this, stories about people and communities, are the most important stories in football. And I believe they deserve to be told carefully, truthfully, and respectfully. The beat keeper is not allowed to fall asleep in the cheering. That is a line I always remind myself of. In this match, there will be a lot of cheering. There will be the singing of The Jakmania, the support of PSIM fans, the commentary of reporters, and the cheers of supporters across Indonesia. But behind all that noise, there is a story unfolding. And my job is to listen to it. The training ground is a stage without an audience, where the supporting role practices being the lead. I learned this on those Tuesday mornings in Pudong, when I watched a number 7 take shots from a 35-meter angle. He was not the biggest star of the team. But he was the one I chose to write about, because I believe that stories about the unnoticed are often the most interesting stories. In this match, there will be people like that. There will be players not mentioned in the media, who will decide the outcome of the match. And there will be supporters not mentioned, who will create the atmosphere of the match. In the Suzhou bubble, we scored with lonely shots. I think of this line when I think of the supporters who will travel to Bantul. They are making a journey they have waited years for. They are doing it in a context where every eye is on them. And they are doing it with a belief that it matters. I hope they are right. I hope their trip will be a success, not because their club wins, but because they are there. Kazan taught me: tears do not belong to the loser, but to the one who stays. In this match, there will be a loser and a winner. There will be people leaving the pitch with joy, and people leaving with sadness. But the real story is not there. The real story is with the people who stay, the people who will continue to follow their club, who will continue to believe, and who will continue to wait for the day the door is opened again. In the context of Indonesian football, the people who stay are the most important. They are the people who have waited for years. They are the people who have endured disappointments, losses, and disasters. And they are the people who are still here, still believing, still hoping. When I write about football, I try to write about them. Because I believe they deserve to be remembered. The pitch never lies, only the observer tells the truth. When the match ends, the grass will still be there, as it has always been. It will not remember who won, who lost, who cried, who laughed. But the people who were there will remember. They will remember the moment they entered the stadium, the moment they saw the color of their club in the stands, the moment they sang together. And those memories will stay with them, longer than any scoreline. That is why I write. Not to record scorelines, but to record memories. Not to celebrate winners, but to remember those who were there. And not to draw conclusions, but to ask questions. My final question is: what will happen next? There will be more trips, more matches, more stories. There will be successes and failures. There will be joyful moments and sad moments. And there will be people who continue to follow their club, no matter what happens. This is what I believe, and this is what I hope to continue to witness. At twenty-two I counted every meter of the ritual; at thirty-one I understand it was a promise. When I started writing about football, I thought my job was to record events. Now I understand that my job is to record promises. The promise of supporters to their club. The promise of players to those who believed in them. The promise of a football nation to those who loved it, despite everything. The transfer market is where people call love by a number in Euros. But in this match, no one will call love by a number in Euros. There will be people traveling on a train, wearing orange shirts, singing songs they have sung for years. They will not be paid to do it. They will do it because they believe in something larger than themselves. And that is the most beautiful thing in football. When I look back on my career, I see that the moments I remember most are not the biggest matches. They are the small moments, the human moments. A player taking a shot from a 35-meter angle in an empty training session. A man kneeling to kiss the grass in Kazan. A Brazilian player standing on a balcony in Suzhou, missing his two children. And now, I will add one more moment to that list: the supporters of The Jakmania, on a train to Bantul, following their club for the first time in years. That is the story I want to tell. That is the story I will tell. And that is the story I hope will continue to be told, in Indonesia and everywhere in the world, because football is about people, and people deserve to have their stories told. While waiting for the kickoff whistle, I will keep watching. I will watch the news, the reports, the signals. I will try to understand what is happening, and why it matters. And I will try to record it as faithfully as possible. Because that is my job, and that is what I believe I was born to do. I write not to be read, but so that the pitch has a witness. That is the line I always keep in mind when I write. I do not write to be famous, to be recognized, or to be paid. I write to record what happened, to have a record of what people did, felt, and believed. And I believe that is an important job, because if no one records it, those stories will be lost, and a part of history will be lost with them. The match between PSIM and Persija will end. The supporters will go home. The pitch will be cleaned. And life will continue. But what happened that day will not disappear. It will become a part of history, a part of collective memory, a part of the story of Indonesian football. And I will be there, in my own way, to record it. That is why I do this work. That is why I write. And that is why I believe that football, with all its joys and sorrows, is one of the most beautiful things humans have created. Because football is about people, and people, with all their flaws and dignity, deserve to have their stories told.