Tempeh’s story, like the Indonesian spirit, is one of survival. In the 17th to 20th centuries, while the Dutch East India Company and later the Dutch colonial government controlled much of Java, everyday life for Indonesians became defined by scarcity, oppression, and resilience. In those years, tempeh evolved from being merely food for villagers to becoming something far more profound — a culinary emblem of independence and self-reliance.
It is hard to overstate how turbulent these centuries were. The fertile soil of Java, once feeding entire kingdoms, was now channeled into producing export crops for European markets — sugar, coffee, and indigo. Villagers, who had once farmed diverse grains and legumes, found their land converted into plantations. Rice became expensive, meat was rare, and poverty spread like a shadow over the island.
Yet even under such conditions, people still had to eat. And where there is necessity, there is invention.
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The People’s Protein
In this landscape of deprivation, tempeh became a quiet savior. Cheap, nourishing, and locally producible, it required no imported ingredients, no complicated tools, and no permission from colonial authorities. Anyone could make it — a family, a widow, a group of neighbors.
Soybeans were relatively accessible, and nature itself provided the essential mold (Rhizopus oligosporus) floating freely in the warm air of Java. Tempeh needed no artificial starter; the spores lived on banana leaves, the same leaves used to wrap it. The process was, in its own way, democratic — food made by the people, for the people, beyond the reach of colonial control.
By the 18th century, European observers had noticed this strange Javanese product. Dutch merchants documented “a kind of fermented bean cake eaten by natives,” though most regarded it as peasant food — too earthy, too common, too different. Ironically, the very simplicity that sustained local communities also made it invisible to the colonial elite.
Colonial Hierarchies of Taste
Colonial society was obsessed with hierarchy — not just in governance, but in food. What you ate defined who you were. Europeans brought their own culinary habits, preferring bread, cheese, and meat imported from afar, while viewing local dishes as crude or unsanitary.
In that social theater, tempeh became stigmatized as “poor people’s food.” The Dutch colonials and the Europeanized elite avoided it, while local villagers continued to rely on it daily. Yet within that divide lay an irony: the very food dismissed by colonizers was, in truth, more nutritious than much of what they ate.
Modern science later revealed that tempeh, thanks to fermentation, contains high-quality protein, fiber, and B vitamins — including the elusive B12, rare in plant-based sources. But in colonial times, nutritional science had not yet caught up with traditional wisdom. To the Javanese, however, the benefits were self-evident: tempeh filled stomachs, gave strength, and required nothing foreign to make.
Food as Resistance
When an occupying power dictates the land, the economy, and even the language, everyday acts can become quiet forms of rebellion. Eating tempeh was one of them.
While the Dutch exported sugar and coffee, local families tended small soybean plots and continued to make their beloved tempeh. They preserved local seed varieties, passed down recipes, and taught younger generations how to ferment properly — not in defiance of the colonizers, but in defiance of hunger and dependency.
Tempeh symbolized swadeshi before the term existed in Indonesia — the idea of self-reliance through local production. It was homemade nutrition that asked for no permission, owed no tax, and could not be monopolized. Every banana leaf-wrapped block of tempeh was a quiet act of autonomy.
The Early Scientific Gaze
By the late 19th century, Dutch scientists began taking notice. Curiosity replaced condescension. In 1895, Dr. Prinsen Geerligs, a Dutch chemist working in Java, published one of the first scientific papers describing tempeh’s fermentation. He was puzzled — why didn’t it rot like other beans? What caused it to bind into a cake instead of turning slimy or sour?
That inquiry opened the door to microbiological discovery. Later, in the 1920s and 1930s, researchers at agricultural stations in Bogor and Bandung studied the fungus responsible and classified it as Rhizopus oligosporus. These studies were among the first in the world to analyze an indigenous fermentation process scientifically.
Yet even as European scientists tried to “understand” tempeh in laboratories, local people continued to make it by instinct — soaking, boiling, wrapping, and waiting. The knowledge had never been lost because it was never written; it was lived.
A Taste of Identity
Food, especially under colonial rule, often becomes a mirror of cultural tension. The colonizer eats to assert power, the colonized eats to remember who they are. Tempeh embodied that memory.
In the villages, it was a reminder that life could still be sustained on local terms. In cities like Yogyakarta and Surakarta, it became part of nasi kucing at roadside stalls — small portions of rice with tempeh or sambal, cheap and nourishing for laborers and students alike. Even the Javanese nobility, while hosting European-style banquets, would return to tempeh at home. It was comfort food — humble, honest, and entirely theirs.
By the early 20th century, Indonesian nationalists began to reclaim local traditions as symbols of pride. Just as batik and wayang were reinterpreted as expressions of identity, tempeh too began to be seen differently — not as “peasant food,” but as Indonesian food.
The Quiet Revolution of the Kitchen
While political movements gathered in secret meetings, revolutions were also brewing in kitchens. Housewives, vendors, and small producers turned soybeans into sustenance that nourished entire communities. No newspaper reported their names, yet their work kept the population alive during times of rationing and scarcity.
Tempeh’s affordability made it indispensable during economic crises. When Japanese forces occupied Indonesia in the 1940s, tempeh once again became a crucial protein source. Soldiers ate it, farmers ate it, and families ate it — because it was the one food that could always be made, even when everything else failed.
From colonialism to occupation, from hunger to hope, tempeh remained steadfast. The leaf-wrapped cakes steaming in kitchens across Java were not just food — they were endurance made edible.
Legacy of a Colonial Past
Today, when you bite into a crisp piece of fried tempeh, it’s easy to forget that every flavor carries a story. The bitterness of soy, the earthiness of mold, the faint tang of fermentation — they echo centuries of struggle, adaptation, and quiet defiance.
Tempeh survived colonization not by fighting back with force, but by persisting, feeding, and nourishing generations who refused to disappear. It represents a kind of wisdom that can’t be conquered: the understanding that life can thrive even under constraint, so long as people remember how to create from what they have.
When Indonesia finally won independence in 1945, the country inherited more than political freedom. It inherited a living heritage of resilience — and tempeh, that humble village food, was part of it.
A Taste That Endures
Even now, tempeh’s popularity in Indonesia reflects that enduring spirit. It’s not just nostalgia — it’s nourishment, sustainability, and identity all wrapped in one.
Tempeh taught the world that great things can grow from humble beginnings, that science can coexist with tradition, and that flavor can be an act of quiet rebellion.
If you wish to taste this history — to experience what endurance and culture taste like — come to Malang and enjoy fresh tempeh made by local artisans. Each bite is a story told in silence, a flavor born from centuries of survival.
