The Sand That Swallowed a Fishing Ground
Aminah waded into the shallows of the Tanjung Kupang seagrass meadow the same way she had done every low tide for years — barefoot, bucket in hand, prodding the soft bed for conch shells, crabs, and clams. The meadow stretched 36 square kilometers along the western shore of the Strait of Johor, the largest intertidal seagrass ecosystem in Malaysia, two hundred meters from a coastline where fishermen had cast nets for generations. By the time she noticed what was happening on the horizon — barges, cranes, the mechanical roar of sand being poured into the sea — it was already too late to stop it. No environmental impact assessment had been filed. No one had told the village. The meadow that fed her family was being buried alive to build a city for people who would never come.
Forest City is a $100 billion lesson in what happens when three forms of hubris collide: the belief that you can manufacture a metropolis from nothing and fill it with strangers, the assumption that Chinese capital will flow outward forever, and the conviction that ecological annihilation can be rebranded as green innovation. The project sits at the intersection of China's Belt and Road ambitions, Malaysia's appetite for foreign investment, and the oldest story in real estate — build it and they will come. They did not come. What remains is probably the most expensive ghost town in human history, a forest of gleaming towers on artificial land, maintained daily by a skeleton crew, inhabited by a population that would barely fill a small suburb. The fishermen of Tanjung Kupang lost their seagrass. The Chinese buyers lost their deposits. Country Garden lost everything.
The Strait of Johor Before the Sand Barges
Kampung Tanjung Kupang and the Seagrass Kingdom
The southwestern coast of Johor, Malaysia's southernmost state, was never glamorous. It was something better: alive. The subdistrict of Mukim Tanjung Kupang held roughly 11,000 people across nine villages — Malay and Chinese fishing communities whose families had worked the estuary for generations. The Tanjung Kupang intertidal seagrass meadow, sprawling across 36 square kilometers of shallow water, functioned as a nursery for fish, prawns, and crabs, a feeding ground for dugongs and sea turtles, and a daily supermarket for gleaners like Aminah who waded in at every low tide to harvest what the sea offered for free.
Directly behind the meadow sat the Pulai River Mangrove Forest Reserve, classified in 2003 as a Ramsar wetland of international significance — one of the highest conservation designations on Earth. The mangroves covered 91 square kilometers of coastline, buffering storms, filtering sediment, and sheltering one of the most biodiverse marine corridors in Southeast Asia. The entire area was classified as an Environmentally Sensitive Area Rank 1 — the Malaysian government's own designation, meaning no development was permitted except low-impact nature tourism, research, and education.
The fishermen of Kampung Tanjung Kupang and the neighboring village of Kampung Pendas did not know, in late 2013, that the seabed beneath their boats had already been sold.
The Sultan, the Developer, and the Belt and Road Pitch
The story of Forest City begins not with sand barges but with a handshake between power and capital. In 2006, Yang Guoqiang — a former farmer and construction laborer from Shunde, Guangdong, who had built Country Garden Holdings from a single housing project in 1992 into one of China's largest property developers — announced plans for a massive offshore development in Johor. The joint venture paired Country Garden Pacific View (CGPV), holding 60 percent of shares, with Esplanade Danga 88, an affiliate of the Johor state government subsidiary whose principal shareholder was Sultan Ibrahim Ismail of Johor — one of Malaysia's most powerful and outspoken royals.
The project was pitched under the umbrella of China's Belt and Road Initiative, with Malaysia positioning itself as one of the four largest recipients of Chinese BRI investment worldwide. The vision: four artificial islands totaling roughly 1,386 hectares of reclaimed land, rising from the Strait of Johor just a 20-minute drive from Singapore. A "smart eco-city" for 700,000 people, complete with vertical gardens, AI-managed infrastructure, duty-free shopping, international schools, golf courses, and a waterpark. The estimated cost: $100 billion over 30 years.
On 6 March 2016, Malaysian Prime Minister Najib Razak presided over Forest City's grand opening, announcing its designation as a duty-free zone. The Sultan gave his blessing. Country Garden's sales machine went into overdrive. The future, by all accounts, was already built.
Building a City on Borrowed Sand and Borrowed Money
Four Islands from Nothing — The Engineering of a Fantasy
The physical scale of Forest City's construction defied easy comprehension. An estimated 162 million cubic meters of sand — enough to fill roughly 65,000 Olympic swimming pools — was dredged and dumped into the Strait of Johor to create four artificial islands where open water had been. The sand smothered seagrass beds, altered tidal currents, and pushed the international maritime boundary with Singapore into uncomfortable proximity. The development, marketed as a beacon of environmental sustainability, was built by destroying a protected ecosystem to create fake land in the sea.
Country Garden's promotional materials spoke of rooftop solar panels, waste-reducing construction, and green architecture. The reality on the ground told a different story. Cracks began appearing in the Show Gallery, hotel buildings, and nearby roads shortly after construction — the result of building on reclaimed land without allowing the soil to settle and stabilize. A building consultant who inspected the site warned that the reclaimed land was actively sinking and that subsidence would likely continue. The irony was architectural: a city branded as the future was cracking apart before anyone moved in.
No Assessment, No Permission, No Problem
Reclamation began in January 2014. The legally required Detailed Environmental Impact Assessment had not been filed. Country Garden had been allowed to proceed by the Johor state government without any of the required reclamation permits — a decision made possible in part by the Sultan's direct financial stake in the project and the strict lèse-majesté laws that made public criticism of the monarchy a criminal offense. The fishermen of Kampung Tanjung Kupang were among the last to know. Many only discovered the reclamation when they saw sand barges operating in their fishing grounds.
Singapore noticed before Malaysia's own federal government did. In May 2014, the city-state sent a diplomatic note demanding clarification on the project's potential impact on navigation safety, shoreline erosion, water quality, and local fish farms — concerns rooted in a 2005 agreement mediated by the International Tribunal for the Law of the Sea. The diplomatic pressure forced Malaysia's hand. On 6 June 2014, the Department of Environment formally requested the DEIA from Country Garden. On 17 June 2014, a stop-work order was issued — though reports indicated that construction continued regardless.
When CGPV finally produced the assessment, the company made an extraordinary admission: it had begun construction with no knowledge of the local biodiversity it was destroying. The DEIA, completed in January 2015, contained 81 corrective directives, including an order to reduce the project's footprint from 1,600 hectares to less than 405. Country Garden split the single monolithic island into four smaller ones linked by bridges, ostensibly to leave the seagrass bed intact. The developer pledged 250 hectares of seagrass plantation and 9 kilometers of replanted mangroves. Environmental critics called the measures cosmetic. The sand was already in the water.
The Showroom That Sold a Dream
Forest City's marketing operation was a masterclass in manufactured desire. Country Garden organized free investor tours from mainland China, busing prospective buyers directly to a lavish sales gallery in Johor where Mandarin-speaking staff guided them past a massive scale model of the fully envisioned city — blinking lights, miniature towers, simulated green canopies. In 2016 alone, Chinese nationals purchased 70 percent of all units sold. The apartments started at roughly $170,000 for a two-bedroom unit — a bargain compared to coastal property in Shanghai or Shenzhen, and an attractive vehicle for parking wealth outside China's borders.
The road signage throughout Forest City was often exclusively in Chinese. The first school to open was a private American Christian boarding school, Shattuck-Saint Mary's, a selling point for Chinese parents seeking Western education. The few commercial tenants that did operate catered to Chinese tastes and expectations. Forest City was not, in any meaningful sense, a Malaysian city. It was a Chinese offshore investment vehicle with a Malaysian address — a gated enclave where the developer had negotiated private police and a private coastguard with the Johor state government, effectively carving out a zone of semi-sovereignty on Malaysian soil.
The magazine Foreign Policy would later call it a "massive boondoggle." At its peak, the project felt less like urban planning and more like a speculative fever dream — a $100 billion bet that the Chinese middle class would keep writing checks forever.
The Three Walls That Closed In
Xi Jinping's Capital Controls and the $50,000 Cap
The first blow came from Beijing. In early 2017, Xi Jinping's government imposed strict capital controls designed to stem the hemorrhage of Chinese wealth flowing into overseas real estate — the exact population Forest City had been engineered to capture. The new regulations capped overseas currency transfers at $50,000 per person per year. An apartment in Forest City cost at least twice that. Overnight, the pipeline of Chinese buyers was severed at the source.
Country Garden was forced to close its sales galleries across mainland Chinese cities. Buyers who had already made down payments found themselves unable to complete purchases. The carefully constructed funnel — free tours, glossy brochures, busloads of investors — ground to a halt. Forest City's developers scrambled to pivot, opening nine new sales galleries across other Asian countries and 13 within Malaysia, rebranding the project as a "global metropolis" rather than a Chinese offshore haven. The pivot was too late, too transparently desperate, and aimed at a market that had never been courted in the first place.
Mahathir's Election and the "Foreign City" Ban
The second blow was political. In Malaysia's 2018 general election, Mahathir Mohamad — the 92-year-old former prime minister mounting an improbable comeback — made Forest City a centerpiece of his campaign against Chinese economic influence and the corruption of the Najib Razak government. Mahathir publicly attacked the project as a threat to national sovereignty, calling it a city built for foreigners on Malaysian land. His victory in May 2018 sent shockwaves through the development.
Mahathir issued what was initially described as a "ban" on foreigners buying property in Forest City — later restructured as changes to the Malaysia My Second Home long-term visa program, which had been the primary legal pathway for Chinese nationals to reside in Malaysia. The effect was devastating. Chinese owners, now unable to secure long-term residency and spooked by the hostile political climate, began selling their units at steep losses. The supply overhang ballooned. Most of Forest City's workforce had been low-wage laborers from South Asia or white-collar employees from China — few of them had any reason to stay when the money stopped flowing.
By the end of 2019, only 15,000 units had been sold against a target of 700,000. As few as 500 people were estimated to actually live in the development.
Country Garden's $190 Billion Collapse
The third blow was existential. The COVID-19 pandemic cratered cross-border property sales globally, and Forest City's occupancy — already anemic — dropped further as remaining residents returned to their home countries and travel restrictions sealed the Malaysian-Singaporean border. The developer laid off at least two-thirds of its Forest City staff after selling fewer than ten properties in 18 months. Sales plummeted by more than 90 percent after March 2020.
The pandemic was the accelerant, but the underlying fire was Country Garden's own balance sheet. China's broader property sector crisis — triggered by the implosion of Evergrande in 2021 and the cascading defaults that followed — caught up with Country Garden by mid-2023. Evergrande's own artificial-island vanity project, Ocean Flower Island off the coast of Hainan, offered a grim preview of where Forest City was heading: a $12 billion archipelago shaped like a flower, built on illegally reclaimed land that destroyed coral reefs, approved by a provincial official later convicted of corruption and sentenced to life in prison. By late 2021, authorities had ordered 39 of its buildings demolished, and its founder Xu Jiayin — once China's richest man — was in jail. The unfinished luxury villas sat rotting, hard hats and paint barrels still scattered where workers had walked off the job. Forest City's developer was next in line.
In August 2023, Country Garden reported a record first-half loss of between 45 and 55 billion yuan ($6.25–$7.6 billion). Its share price collapsed below HK$1 for the first time. In October 2023, the company failed to make a $15.4 million coupon payment on a $500 million dollar-denominated bond, triggering cross-defaults across roughly $11 billion in offshore debt. Country Garden — once China's largest homebuilder, the architect of Forest City's fantasy — was formally declared in default.
The parallels to Ordos Kangbashi were impossible to ignore. Both were Chinese-financed mega-developments built for populations that never materialized. Both became international symbols of speculative overreach. The difference was scale: Ordos cost a few billion dollars. Forest City cost a hundred.
A City of 700,000 with 9,000 Residents
What It Looks Like When Nobody Comes
Visitors to Forest City in 2024 and 2025 described an experience closer to science fiction than real estate. Dozens of residential skyscrapers — sleek, modern, some of them genuinely beautiful — stood along palm-lined boulevards that stretched into silence. Landscaped beaches, a golf course designed by Jack Nicklaus, a waterpark, a 283-room Phoenix Hotel: all maintained, all largely empty. Signs near the beach warned swimmers of crocodiles. A lonely yacht sat moored offshore. In the sales gallery, Mandarin-speaking staff still guided a trickle of visitors past the blinking scale model of a city that was supposed to exist by now.
Sun Qibin, a Chinese national in his 30s who ran a small grocery store beneath one of the high-rises, told Al Jazeera that business had picked up recently but remained slow. A man near the entrance rented electric scooters to the occasional tourist. Only about 15 percent of Forest City's planned infrastructure had actually been completed — the rest existed only in renderings and marketing brochures. Of the 28,000 housing units built, the vast majority sat vacant.
The ghost town attracted a new kind of resident: dark tourists and YouTubers. Video after video documented the same surreal tableau — pristine infrastructure, zero foot traffic, a city with every amenity except people. The comparison to a post-apocalyptic film set became a cliché, but it was hard to avoid. Forest City was not ruined or decayed. It was simply unoccupied. The towers gleamed. The pools were chlorinated. The gardens were trimmed. And almost no one was there to see any of it.
Yet life at the margins told a different story. Wafa Aina Wahid, a young Malaysian woman, signed a lease with her husband because the emptiness was, ironically, their opportunity — a two-bedroom apartment with two bathrooms for under 2,000 ringgit ($450) per month, a fraction of what they'd pay elsewhere in Johor. For the handful who did move in, Forest City offered luxury at collapse-era prices.
The Environmental Scar Beneath the Silence
The human emptiness of Forest City was visible from satellite imagery. The ecological damage was harder to see, but far more permanent. The Tanjung Kupang seagrass meadow — 200 meters from Forest City's landscaped beach — had been smothered, fragmented, and choked by sediment from the reclamation work. An environmental study commissioned by CGPV itself acknowledged "permanent loss of traditional fishing ground" and irreversible damage to seagrass and mangroves. The company argued this would be offset by economic benefits, including an estimated 62,200 jobs. Most of those jobs never materialized.
Shalan, a 25-year-old fisherman from Kampung Pendas, came from a long line of men who had worked the strait. He would not allow his children to follow. "The sea has shrunk," he told The Malaysian Insight. He had been relocated three times. Beneath the elevated highway leading to Forest City's main entrance, ramshackle kampung houses — some abandoned — formed a jarring contrast with the $100 billion development overhead. Aziz Sulaiman, a 67-year-old crab fisherman, described losing 1,000 ringgit in two weeks during a period when his 20 traps caught nothing. Another fisherman, Jai, said his daily crab haul had fallen from 50 kilograms to one or two.
Mass fish deaths hit the Tanjung Kupang farms in early 2015, bringing up seahorses and moray eels from the disrupted seabed. Yusaini Majid, 35, who had worked at one of the affected fish farms for three years, said the owner was shutting down. "The boss is upset," he told reporters. "He doesn't want to farm fish anymore because they keep dying." The dozen fish farms that once bustled in the Tanjung Kupang waters fell silent one by one.
Serina Abdul Rahman, a research fellow at the ISEAS–Yusof Ishak Institute and one of Forest City's most prominent environmental critics, lived in the Tanjung Kupang district and co-founded Kelab Alami, an environmental education group. She did not mince words: the land reclamation that underpinned Forest City's existence was doing serious and ongoing damage to seagrass, mangroves, and fishery habitats — regardless of the rooftop gardens and sustainability branding. The project had been built on an ESA Rank 1 site. On Ramsar-designated wetlands. On the seabed of a community that had fished it for centuries. No amount of replanted mangrove could undo that fact.
Like Fordlândia — Henry Ford's failed rubber utopia in the Amazon — Forest City was a case study in what happens when foreign capital imposes a vision onto a landscape it does not understand and a community it has not consulted. The scale was different. The indifference was the same.
Special Financial Zone — Revival or Rebranding?
Tax Breaks, Duty-Free Status, and the Second Act
Forest City's story did not end with abandonment, because it was never fully abandoned. It lingered in a liminal state — too expensive to demolish, too empty to function, too politically charged to ignore. In 2024, the Malaysian government under Prime Minister Anwar Ibrahim designated Forest City as Malaysia's first tax-free Special Financial Zone, offering corporate tax rates between zero and five percent, income tax incentives for qualifying workers, and duty-free status on Forest City's first completed island. The target audience was no longer Chinese retirees buying second homes — it was family offices, fintech firms, and global business services seeking an alternative to Singapore's saturated market.
The pivot represented a fundamental reimagining: from residential ghost town to financial services hub. Transport connectivity plans included proposed ferry services to Singapore, road links to the Malaysia-Singapore Second Link, and potential rail connections. By early 2025, more than 30 local and international investors had reportedly expressed interest in establishing family offices under the new regime. In July 2024, the Malaysian Parliament passed five bills formalizing Island 1's duty-free status.
The Ghost Town That Won't Die
Whether the SFZ gambit will succeed remains an open question. The "ghost city" label, amplified by social media and YouTube tourism, has created a self-reinforcing cycle: emptiness deters buyers, which reinforces emptiness, which generates more viral content about the emptiness. Past political interventions — Mahathir's visa restrictions, the policy reversals, the shifting signals from successive governments — have left foreign investors wary of committing capital to a project whose regulatory environment has changed with every election.
Country Garden's debt restructuring remains unresolved. In January 2025, the company presented a proposal to offshore creditors aimed at reducing $11.6 billion in debt, but a Hong Kong High Court liquidation petition still hangs over the company's future. The question of who actually controls Forest City's destiny — the Malaysian government, the Johor state apparatus, or a Chinese developer fighting for its corporate survival — has no clean answer.
Forest City joins a growing catalogue of 21st-century megaprojects that promised utopia and delivered vacancy — from Ordos Kangbashi in Inner Mongolia to the stalled smart cities of Saudi Arabia. Each promised to conjure a population into existence through the sheer force of infrastructure. Each learned the same lesson: buildings do not create communities. People do. And people, unlike sand, cannot be dredged from the sea and dumped where the developers need them.
The comparison extends to Próspera in Honduras — another planned city pitched as a visionary alternative, tangled in political backlash and questions about who the development was truly built to serve. The pattern repeats across continents and centuries: from Hashima Island, the abandoned concrete city off Japan's coast built for industry that no longer needed it, to Pripyat, the Soviet nuclear city evacuated overnight. Forest City's distinction is that it was never evacuated. It was simply never populated.
The Atlas Entry — Visiting Forest City
Forest City is located in Iskandar Puteri, Johor, on the southwestern tip of Peninsular Malaysia. The nearest airport is Johor Bahru's Senai International Airport, roughly 35 minutes away by car. Singapore's Changi Airport is approximately 60 to 90 minutes away depending on border crossing times. The development is accessible by road via the elevated Tanjung Pelepas Highway.
Visitors will find a development that is surreal rather than derelict. The towers are maintained. The roads are clean. The landscaping is trimmed. A hotel, a golf course, and a small number of restaurants operate for the modest population and the trickle of curious tourists. Electric scooters can be rented near the entrance. The sales gallery, still staffed, offers an inadvertently poignant experience — a meticulously crafted scale model of a city that exists mostly in miniature.
The beach is technically accessible, though signs warn of crocodiles, and swimming is not advised. The contrast between the development's physical polish and its human absence is Forest City's defining sensory experience — an uncanny valley of urban planning where everything looks right and nothing feels inhabited.
For those interested in understanding what lies beneath the glossy surface, the fishing villages of Kampung Tanjung Kupang and Kampung Pendas are nearby — modest communities whose relationship with the coast predates Forest City by centuries and whose livelihood was sacrificed for it. The Pulai River mangroves, though diminished, remain partially accessible for nature observation. The juxtaposition between the kampung houses huddled beneath the highway and the glass towers rising above them is among the most striking visual contrasts in Southeast Asian urbanism.
Forest City is not a ruin. It is not a monument. It is something harder to categorize: a place that was fully built and almost fully empty, a city that exists in the future tense even as the present tense has already passed it by. Standing on its landscaped beach, looking across the Strait of Johor toward the Singapore skyline, the visitor confronts a disquieting question that Forest City cannot answer and will not stop asking: who was this for?
FAQ Section
Is Forest City Malaysia abandoned?
Forest City is not abandoned in the traditional sense — its buildings are maintained, its landscaping is trimmed, and a small number of hotels, restaurants, and commercial tenants still operate. The development has a long-term residential population of roughly 8,000 to 9,000 people, though some estimates put the figure as low as 2,000 permanent residents. The planned capacity was 700,000. Only about 15 percent of the envisioned infrastructure has been completed, and the vast majority of its 28,000 housing units sit vacant. The term "ghost city" is more accurate than "abandoned" — Forest City is a functioning development with almost no one in it.
Why did Forest City fail?
Forest City's decline was caused by a convergence of political, economic, and regulatory factors. China's 2017 capital controls capped overseas transfers at $50,000 per year, cutting off the project's primary buyer base of wealthy Chinese nationals. Malaysia's 2018 election brought Mahathir Mohamad to power on a platform critical of Chinese investment, leading to restrictions on foreign property ownership and the suspension of long-term visa programs. The COVID-19 pandemic further cratered sales, and Country Garden — the Chinese developer behind the project — defaulted on $11 billion in offshore bonds in October 2023 amid China's broader property sector crisis.
What is the Forest City Special Financial Zone?
In 2024, the Malaysian government designated Forest City as the country's first tax-free Special Financial Zone (SFZ), offering corporate tax rates between zero and five percent, income tax incentives for qualifying workers, and duty-free status. The goal is to attract family offices, fintech companies, and global business services — pivoting Forest City from a failed residential project to a financial and commercial hub. In July 2024, Parliament passed five bills formalizing the duty-free designation for Forest City's first completed island. The initiative is part of Prime Minister Anwar Ibrahim's broader strategy to revitalize the Johor-Singapore economic corridor.
What environmental damage did Forest City cause?
Forest City was built on reclaimed land in an area classified as an Environmentally Sensitive Area Rank 1 — the highest protection level under Malaysian law. Construction began in 2014 without the legally required environmental impact assessment. The reclamation smothered portions of the Tanjung Kupang seagrass meadow, the largest intertidal seagrass bed in Malaysia, and threatened the adjacent Pulai River Mangrove Forest Reserve, a Ramsar-designated wetland of international significance. Local fishermen reported mass fish deaths, drastically reduced catches, and the loss of traditional fishing grounds. An environmental study commissioned by the developer itself acknowledged "permanent loss of traditional fishing ground."
Can you visit Forest City?
Forest City is open to visitors and accessible from Johor Bahru's Senai International Airport (approximately 35 minutes by car) or from Singapore via the Malaysia-Singapore Second Link crossing. Visitors can explore the landscaped grounds, rent electric scooters, visit the sales gallery, and stay at the Phoenix Hotel or other operating accommodations. The beach is accessible but swimming is discouraged due to warning signs about crocodiles. The experience is surreal rather than desolate — the infrastructure is polished and well-maintained, but nearly empty of people.
Who built Forest City and who owns it?
Forest City is a joint venture between Country Garden Pacific View (CGPV), a subsidiary of Chinese developer Country Garden Holdings, and Esplanade Danga 88, an affiliate of Johor's state government subsidiary KPRJ. CGPV holds 60 percent of shares, while KPRJ holds 40 percent. The Sultan of Johor, Sultan Ibrahim Ismail, holds a significant stake through the Malaysian side of the venture. Country Garden was founded in 1992 by Yang Guoqiang, a former farmer from Guangdong province who built it into China's largest homebuilder before the company defaulted on its offshore debt in October 2023.
Sources
- [Malaysia's Forest City and the Damage Done] - The Diplomat (2017)
- [Urban Speculation for Survival: Adaptations and Negotiations in Forest City, Malaysia] - Emma Avery & Sarah Moser, Environment and Planning A: Economy and Space, SAGE Journals (2023)
- [Forest City, Malaysia, and Chinese Expansionism] - Sarah Moser, Urban Geography, Taylor & Francis (2018)
- [Johor's Forest City Faces Critical Challenges] - Serina Abdul Rahman, ISEAS–Yusof Ishak Institute, Trends in Southeast Asia No. 3 (2017)
- [As Opposition Wanes, a Malaysian Land Reclamation Project Pushes Ahead] - Keith Schneider, Mongabay (2019)
- [A Civic Outcry in Malaysia Forces a Chinese Builder to Live Up to Its Eco-Friendly Tag] - Keith Schneider, Mongabay (2018)
- [How a Focus on Chinese Buyers 'Doomed' Malaysia's Forest City] - Patrick Lee, Al Jazeera (2023)
- [Country Garden Has Defaulted on Its Debt. What's Next?] - Laura He, CNN Business (2023)
- [Reclaimed City in Southern Malaysia Triggers Ecology Fears] - Agence France-Presse, Rappler (2016)
- [Forest City Johor: Fishers Struggle with Land Reclamation in Malaysia] - Dialogue Earth (2022)
- [My Say: Forest City Reimagined] - The Edge Malaysia Weekly (2026)
- [The Case of Forest City and Singapore] - MIT OpenCourseWare, Development Planning and Implementation (2015)
