The conception of Forest City was born in the early 2010s during a moment of fervent optimism, when China’s most prominent developers were expanding across the globe and Malaysia was eager to showcase itself as a gateway between East Asia and the global South. In the shimmering heat of the Johor Strait, just a few kilometers across the water from the economic dynamo of Singapore, plans began to take shape for what would be one of the most ambitious urban experiments in Southeast Asia. Four artificial islands would be created from the sea, covering nearly thirty square kilometers, and upon them would rise a futuristic city. It would be green and sustainable. It would be smart and connected. It would be home to hundreds of thousands of people from all over the world. It would be a city of tomorrow and the century beyond. The marketing language was grandiose and filled with the utopian imagery that had become a hallmark of Chinese-led development. This was not to be just a real estate venture. It was to be a dream paradise for all humanity.
The developer behind the vision was Country Garden, a massive real estate conglomerate based in Foshan, China, that had risen quickly through the explosive housing boom of the early twenty-first century. With state-linked financial support and an increasingly global orientation, the company identified Malaysia as an ideal launchpad for its overseas ambitions. Its partner in the Forest City venture was Esplanade Danga 88, a company controlled by the Sultan of Johor, who contributed state land to the joint project. With backing from powerful Malaysian royalty and capital from China’s immense financial apparatus, the dream began to take shape quickly. A construction blitz followed, which the Malaysian public had rarely seen. Land was rapidly reclaimed. Towers began to rise. By 2016, showrooms were opening in Malaysia and across dozens of Chinese cities. Scale models of Forest City featured greenery-covered skyscrapers, autonomous transport systems, and glass-paneled beaches lit by futuristic LED displays. The apartments were marketed heavily to middle and upper-class Chinese buyers. Virtual reality tours allowed prospective owners in Chengdu or Shenzhen to imagine themselves in tropical luxury. Buyers were promised property and access to international schooling, healthcare, entertainment, and financial services, all within a self-contained utopian environment.
While the developers courted China’s urban elite, many fundamental governance questions, such as environmental balance and cultural inclusion, were left unaddressed. The site of Forest City was environmentally sensitive, home to mangrove forests, tidal flats, and critical habitats for marine life. Local fishermen who had long depended on these waters for their livelihood were alarmed by the rapid pace of land reclamation. Within months, their traditional fishing grounds were buried beneath sand and concrete. The currents changed. The sediment patterns shifted. Fish stocks dwindled. Complaints were raised with local authorities, but few were heeded. For nearly a year, construction continued without a mandatory detailed environmental impact assessment. When the final one was conducted, the damage was already visible. Ecosystems that had taken centuries to evolve were disrupted in months. The loss was not only ecological. It was deeply human.
While physically located in Malaysia, Forest City often felt conceptually separate from it. The marketing material was predominantly in Mandarin, and the sales team was primarily Chinese nationals. Local Malaysians were barely represented in the early planning documents. The price point of most units was beyond the reach of the average Malaysian family, and regional infrastructure was either underdeveloped or absent. Some residents of nearby towns described the development as a “Chinese island,” a place built by outsiders, for outsiders, on Malaysian soil. The broader implications for national sovereignty and demographic balance began to enter political discourse. This tension was heightened in 2018, when a change in Malaysia’s federal government brought the return of Prime Minister Mahathir Mohamad, who openly questioned the wisdom of allowing foreigners to own such vast tracts of land in strategic coastal areas. He was not alone. Voices across the political spectrum began to ask whether Forest City represented development or a loss of control.
At the same time, global economic winds began to shift. In 2017, the Chinese government, responding to capital flight and fears of a real estate bubble, imposed new restrictions on overseas property investments. Chinese citizens were now limited in how much money they could move abroad, and speculative real estate purchases became harder to justify financially. Many buyers who had placed deposits on Forest City units suddenly found themselves unable to complete their payments. Sales slowed. The business model, which had assumed a nearly endless stream of investment from Chinese households eager to diversify abroad, came under immense strain. Compounding the problem was the COVID-19 pandemic. Travel restrictions brought international movement to a standstill. Construction paused. Showrooms closed. Newly built towers stood empty. The few residents who had moved in found themselves living in near silence. The cafes, retail centers, and luxury services that had been promised never materialized. The streets remained immaculately clean, the architecture was gleaming, but the soul of a city was absent. There was infrastructure, but no community. There were buildings, but no life.
Country Garden continued to insist that the project would rebound. They pointed to new incentives announced by the Malaysian government in 2023, which designated Forest City as part of a Special Financial Zone and promised tax exemptions to attract businesses. Prime Minister Anwar Ibrahim hoped the development could become a regional financial center. Some investors returned, intrigued by the prospect of a zero-tax regime for family wealth offices. But optimism was restrained. The reputational damage had already taken root. The images of empty towers and quiet sidewalks had already circulated online. The moniker of Ghost City had taken hold, not only in Malaysia but also in international media.
What went wrong in Forest City was not simply a failure of the market or a consequence of geopolitical shifts. It was a deeper failure of imagination that confused architecture with community and equated development with progress without reckoning with its human and ecological costs. The vision had been bold, even inspiring in its scope. But it had been projected from above, without listening carefully to the needs of the place it was meant to transform. It had been assumed that people would come simply because the buildings were beautiful. It had overlooked the need for trust, belonging, access, and sustainability. Forest City did not fail because it dreamed too big. It failed because it dreamed in isolation.
Today, Forest City still stands. The buildings remain. The sea walls are strong. The fiber-optic cables run smoothly beneath the streets. The sunsets across the Johor Strait still bathe the towers in golden light. But the silence lingers. What began as a beacon of twenty-first-century innovation has become a mirror, reflecting the limits of global capitalism’s most utopian promises. Forest City is not just a failed project. It is a story, still unfolding, of what happens when ambition loses its connection to place, and when the future is built without the participation of those who are meant to live in it.
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