Stadion Galuh and the Epic of the Homeless: Persikotas, Ecep and the Dream of East Priangan

October in Ciamis is not cold, yet inside Stadion Galuh there is a void no ruler can measure. It is the void of a stadium waiting for a lodger. From the 2026/27 season, Persikotas Tasikmalaya Nusantara FC — a third-tier Indonesian club — will call this place home. They do not own it, they do not build it, they borrow it from PSGC Ciamis, the neighbour one division above them.

I still remember a winter evening in Turin in 2026, sitting in a café near Piazza Castello, reading about a Serie C side borrowing a neighbour's ground. The waiter, an old Juventus supporter, looked at me and said: "Football is not for the homeless." That sentence followed me for years.

Tonight, reading the news from Ciamis, I remember it again. Ecep Suwardaniyasa, Persikotas CEO, calls this "a good start for the future of East Priangan football." He is right. But "start" is a beautiful word, and also a dangerous one. For in lower-tier football, every beginning is measured by the hardest thing: the persistence of specific people, not by declarations.

To understand this story, one must place it on the map of Indonesian football. The pyramid runs thus: Liga 1 at the summit, Liga 2 second, Liga 3 third and heavily regionalised, with provincial amateur levels below. PSGC Ciamis play in Liga 2. Persikotas play in Liga 3. A one-division gap sounds small, but in Indonesian football it equals a gap between two worlds of resources.

In Liga 2, clubs receive a small slice of broadcast money, have local sponsors, and sometimes enjoy regional government backing. In Liga 3, money comes almost entirely from owners' pockets, gate receipts, and small symbolic sponsorships. A Liga 3 club owning its own stadium is rare. A Liga 3 club borrowing a Liga 2 neighbour's ground is rarer still.

According to Indonesian media reports, Persikotas has chosen Stadion Galuh as its home ground for the coming season. This is not a transfer, nor a player deal. It is a stadium-use and inter-club cooperation agreement. In other words, it is a story about infrastructure and governance, not about tactics.

The initiator is reportedly Undang Sudrajat, a Persikotas advisor. On the PSGC side stands Herdiat Sunarya — simultaneously the Ciamis Regent, the head of the district government. He is both club CEO and public official. This dual structure is a familiar feature of regional Indonesian football, and it becomes a key node of the story.

Examined closely, the agreement has five pillars. First, shared stadium use. Second, youth player development. Third, coaching cooperation. Fourth, sport tourism development. Fifth, commercial and marketing cooperation aimed at regional and national sponsors.

Of these five, only one is material and verifiable: stadium use. The other four are intentions. This point must be carved deep, because in lower-tier football, intention is the cheapest commodity.

Structurally, Persikotas is plainly the weaker partner. They play lower, they own no ground, and they are the one "given an opportunity." PSGC is stronger in every respect: division, infrastructure, and administrative prestige via the Regent's position. This is an asymmetric relationship presented as an equal friendship.

Yet the asymmetry itself creates value. Consider the logic of regional consolidation. East Priangan — the southeastern region of West Java province — has a football tradition but lacks resources. The two clubs sit a few dozen kilometres apart, sharing a fan market, a recruitment pool, and a local identity. If they go alone, both are weak. If they cooperate, they can become an entity larger than the sum of its parts.

Financially, this is a cost-sharing arrangement, not a capital-intensive investment. Persikotas sheds the infrastructure burden. PSGC gains a partner to share ground costs and a wider audience pool. Both aim at one goal: bundling the commercial appeal of East Priangan into a single offer for sponsors.

The economic logic sounds sound. But there is a problem: the equation only works with real content. Two clubs cannot sell a sponsor a football destination without compelling matches, compelling players, and a compelling story.

On player development, the deal opens a path I have seen many times in Italian football: the feeder route. A lower-tier club becomes a development satellite for a higher-tier one. Persikotas youth can be signed by PSGC, loaned back, or promoted when ripe. It is a common European model, from Serie C to Serie B, from youth sides to the first team. But it has a flip side: the talent flow always leans toward the stronger club.

Here I must stress a point infrastructure analysis often misses. In a feeder arrangement between a second-tier and a third-tier club, the long-term biggest beneficiary is usually the higher-tier side. The best players are spotted at Persikotas, polished, then collected by PSGC. Persikotas plays the nursery. A nursery can be well tended, but the fairest flowers are always picked for another grower.

So why does Persikotas accept? The answer lies in short-term survival. A Liga 3 club with no ground, no money and no clear future finds playing on a compliant pitch, connected to a higher-tier club, appearing in a bigger story, is already progress. In lower-tier football, existence sometimes matters more than fairness.

On leadership structure, the deal rests on three specific individuals: advisor Undang Sudrajat, CEO Ecep Suwardaniyasa, and Regent/CEO Herdiat Sunarya. This is a person-based, not institution-based, governance model. It has the merit of immediate efficiency — a call, a meeting, a deal. But it carries the weakness of fragility: when people change, the deal can dissolve.

On supporters, there is a notable detail. The deal comes with a "peace declaration" between two supporter groups: Laskar Singacala of PSGC and Laskar Wiradadaha of Persikotas. The very need for such a public declaration suggests past tension. No one declares peace with someone who was never an enemy. A peace declaration is a sign of conflict history, not proof of peace.

And here is the irony: when two clubs share a ground, the two fanbases meet more often. One entrance, one stand, one car park. Physical distance shrinks, but emotional distance does not vanish on its own. In the worst case, sharing a ground could increase conflict risk rather than reduce it.

This is where I must check my own romanticism. Reading a story of two clubs cooperating for the common good, a sportswriter drifts easily into the sweet register of unity. But a journalist must not forget the hard question.

The hardest question: Herdiat Sunarya is both Regent of Ciamis and CEO of PSGC. He heads the local government managing public assets — including Stadion Galuh — and simultaneously heads the club benefiting from using that ground. When PSGC "gives the opportunity" to use the stadium, who gives — the club or the government? And does the club's interest align with the public interest?

I am not alleging wrongdoing. I am noting a grey zone. And in lower-tier Indonesian football, this grey zone is so normal that people no longer see it. A public official chairing a club is common and often brings tangible benefits: infrastructure support, government connection, financial stability. But it also means a club's existence depends on the goodwill of one individual inside the public apparatus.

The second check: financial transparency. The terms are unpublished. No rent, no revenue-share ratio, no term length. This is a major information gap. In professional football these figures are the norm. In the lower tiers they are often skipped. But that omission makes deals brittle in dispute and makes it hard to judge whether this is truly progress or merely a statement.

The third: the gap between intent and outcome. Lower-tier football history is full of loudly announced deals that dissolved in silence. A meeting, a photo, a joint statement — then nothing concrete. Every such story must be judged by what comes after, not by what is said. The difference between a statement and a result is the entire history of lower-tier football.

But I do not want the opposite trap — scepticism as habit. The truth is such deals sometimes succeed. Sometimes a third-tier club borrows a neighbour's ground and slowly builds its own identity. Sometimes a local official uses his position to create something more durable than political standing. Lower-tier football is not a place of miracles, but it is a place of quiet effort.

What I believe: in every sports story, football is the means and people are the end. This story is not about a stadium. It is about people in a land with a football tradition but scarce resources, trying to survive and grow in a system that does not favour them. And if East Priangan's young generation gains one more path to grow, this deal deserves to be written as an epic — provided it is actually delivered.

They call it a festival. To me, it is an absence written as an epic. And when the sound is turned off, one finally hears the true pulse of a match.

I once wrote that every wonderkid begins with a goal the world never saw. The Persikotas–PSGC deal is the same. It begins with a meeting no one has yet measured. In an empty stadium, the applause of a million hearts still echoes — but only if someone hears it.

The question is not whether the deal gets signed. The question is: two years from now, when the first sponsor arrives, when the first youth player is pushed up to PSGC, when the first derby is staged on the shared ground — will East Priangan truly have a better football, or just a better-archived statement?