Timorese women raped by Indonesian militias need justice. So do all the other women who survived New Order abuse
Galuh Wandita
After the attack on the [Suai] church, we were taken to Manumutin, Betun, in West Timor. We slept on the verandah of the cooperative because there was no other place. On 11 September [1999], about two in the morning, six Laksaur militias came in a car.... They asked about my daughter. My son-in-law called me and I came. His name is OB, a Laksaur militiaman. He took out a sword and said: 'Look. This sword is covered in the blood of four people I just killed.' They told me to get in the car.... They asked where my husband was; I said I didn't know.... They said: 'Do you like me?'... I had no choice, because they had a weapon... OB pushed me. I was raped in front of my son-in-law. I cried and cried, and felt so powerless, as if I was dead.
An East Timorese woman told this story to the women's organisation Fokupers after Indonesian militias ravaged the country for voting against Indonesia on 30 August, 1999. An authoritarian regime has fallen. An occupation has ended. In the new openness, we are hearing stories of human rights abuse that have long lain buried. They outrage our sense of justice. Old debts must be paid.
Transitional justice is the first hurdle for an often-fragile new democracy, to separate the dark past from a democratic future. But how can it be done, effectively yet in compliance with international human rights standards?
In a conflict situation, women suffer a special kind of violence. The men in East Timor were (often forcibly) recruited by the militias, leaving the women alone to look after the family. With the men gone, the women became vulnerable to 'proxy violence' by those who saw them as representing the defiant life of a whole society or of a group within it. Raping them was a way of crushing the enemy.
Trials
Fokupers spent the first half of 2000 documenting cases of violence against women that happened in the weeks around the East Timor ballot. We uncovered 255 cases of human rights violation, including 46 rapes, five attempted rapes, and sixteen other cases of sexual abuse. We know of at least four pregnancies caused by rape, and two where contraceptives were forced on the victim to prevent pregnancy. Eight of the rape cases involved sexual slavery - rape on a daily basis. Some of these involved children. In others, children were forced to watch their mothers raped. Nine of the rapes were done by TNI soldiers, nine by soldiers and militias together, and all the rest by militias themselves.
Fokupers also has information on the murders of eight women. Many of these occurred in the Suai church massacre, but some were specially targeted. Ana Lemos, for example, chairperson of the resistance organisation OMT in Ermera, was raped and murdered because, as one of her killers said, 'she was the most courageous woman in Ermera'.
The 1949 Geneva Convention does not list rape as a war crime. One reason why rapes were not included in the Nuremburg trials and those held in Japan after World War II is that both sides had committed them. The absence of women is a serious blind spot in the post-World War II trials. But the Yugoslavia trials of the 1990s introduced a new element. They linked rape to the crime of ethnic cleansing. New rules of evidence, now internationally accepted, also in the East Timor trials, make it more likely for rape survivors to obtain justice.
However, many problems remain. How is the victim to be identified in the first place? Especially in a society that tends to blame the rape victim, few are willing to stand up in court and relive the trauma in front of their rapist and his defence team. In East Timor, UN investigators are also facing serious communication difficulties as they attempt to get an accurate account, especially as the event recedes into the past. Time is another problem - the Rwanda genocide had a million victims, and only a tiny fraction of cases have been resolved. Yet, as one of my friends told me, a survivor cannot begin to live again until justice is done. Moreover, East Timorese have hitherto had little reason to trust the courts.
A Truth and Reconciliation Commission is another possibility. Less bound by legal procedure, such a commission can more quickly document a greater number of victims of authoritarian repression than the courts. Similar commissions in Guatemala and South Africa heard the testimonies of thousands of rape survivors. However, after much debate, the South African commission decided that rape was 'criminal' and not 'political' and therefore its amnesty offer did not apply to rape. This removed the incentive for rapists to confess, and for survivors to testify, and thus produced an ironic conspiracy of silence on rape.
Another important issue is compensation. The Chilean transitional justice mechanism offered comprehensive material compensation, including lifetime pensions, for families of those who died in prison under Pinochet. An important non-material form of compensation could be a national day of commemoration. In East Timor, 25 November, UN Day for the Elimination of Violence Against Women, is an important day for rape survivors.
Future
In Indonesia, we have to expose New Order violence against women in the militarised areas of Aceh, West Papua, Maluku and East Timor. We have to look also at the 'anti-PKI' killings of 1965, at the 'petrus' killings of the early 1980s, at the May 1998 riot; also at women political prisoners, and at the impact on women of the militarised family planning program.
In my opinion we should attempt to use all three transitional justice paths - criminal sanctions, truth confessions, and compensation. Considering the political situation, perhaps it should be a staged approach that begins with the last two while preparing for the first. This must be a survivor-centred approach, where they themselves are involved from the start.
A Truth Commission must have strong powers - be able to subpoena documents, and offer protection and compensation for the survivors. Also, ordinary people must be able to hear the stories and thus feel moved. Civil society can play a role in investigations, too. Then there must be a serious effort to rehabilitate the victims, making sure to involve them at every stage. We need to create a safe space for women survivors. In East Timor, widows and survivors have set up several non-government organisations to document crimes and rehabilitate victims. In Indonesia, the new law on human rights needs to be tested to see if the courts will take cases from the past. Perhaps other courts - even commercial ones - can be utilised creatively?
The road to restoration for the survivors, and for us as an Indonesia nation, is a long one. Sometimes people ask me why I am doing this. Isn't it better to forget the past and look to the future? Such questions leave me speechless. It is precisely to the future that I do look.
Materestu, 'Left over from death', is the name of a group of women survivors of the massacre in the Suai church on 6 September 1999. Galuh Wandita (gwandita@hotmail.com) is an Indonesian volunteer with the East Timorese organisation Fokupers. Extracted from a longer paper in Indonesian.
Inside Indonesia 66: Apr - Jun 2001
Sulawesi's fifth gender
What if there were not just two genders, but five? In Indonesia, there are
Sharyn Graham
I first went to Sulawesi in August 1998 on a reconnaissance trip to determine if this would be an interesting place to study gender relations. I had read a little about gender in Sulawesi, encouraged by my supervisors Dr Greg Acciaioli and Dr Lyn Parker, but I was not quite prepared for the richness of Bugis gender identities. In Australia we tend to assume that there are only two genders, woman and man, and two matching biological sexes, female and male. The Bugis acknowledge three sexes (female, male, hermaphrodite), four genders (women, men, calabai, and calalai), and a fifth meta-gender group, the bissu.
'Bissu' tends to be translated as 'transvestite priest', but this term is less than satisfactory. Transvestite implies cross-dressing, but bissu have their own distinctive clothing. Moreover, bissudo not go from one gender to another; they are a combination of all genders. To become a bissu, one must be born both female and male, or hermaphroditic. (To be precise, the Bugis believe that a bissu who appears externally male is internally female, and vice versa). This combination of sexes enables a 'meta-gender' identity to emerge.
La Tenri Olli'Aseng tongeng-tongeng Mu ri langiMu nonno' ri linoMu riyaseng t
Your name in the heavensIs La Tenri Olli',In the name of the buffalo,Descend to earth.
Mariani begins her chant as the sun is setting behind the limestone cliff. The eerie chant is accompanied on the cylindrical drum called tumba, on cymbals (kancing), and metal rhythm sticks (ana' baccing).
Over 35 of us had squeezed into two small mini-vans and traveled for over an hour to reach this place. We then walked a few kilometres to the mouth of a small cave, which, as I was to find out, went deep into the mountain.
Blessing
We had come here to perform a ceremony. A woman I knew named Ibu Qadri wanted to make the pilgrimage to Mecca. She needed the blessing of the spirits before she set off. Bissu have long conducted ceremonies like this. They are able to act as mediators between humans and spirits (dewata) because they are considered neither male nor female, and neither woman nor man, but a mix of all four of these.
This was one of my first bissu ceremonies. I was somewhat baffled as to why a pious Muslim would want a blessing from other spiritual beings. However, over the 15 months (until November 2000) that I lived amongst bissu, I learned that at least to the Bugis there really was no contradiction. They told me that Allah is the one and only God, but Allah has helpers, called dewata. The most powerful of the dewata is the one Mariani is calling today. When Mariani is in contact, the dewata will arrange for the most appropriate lesser dewata to descend and take possession of Mariani. Only then can Mariani bestow blessings.
For the blessing to be a success, Mariani and three other bissu had to enter a cave. I too was invited in. We took off our sandals, and two of the bissu carried burning torches to light our way. I was urged to lead in front. I later found out this was so that I could take their photograph as they entered the cavern. After we had slid on our backsides down the entry passage, walked quite a distance, successfully avoiding treading barefoot upon the many scorpions surrounding us, we came into a large cavern. Here we squatted in a circle. Mariani began chanting. At appropriate times the other bissu joined in. The ceremony here was short. When the chant was over we returned to the opening of the cave.
While we were away, preparations had been made for the main ceremony. Mariani took her place (or 'hir' place, since she is both male and female) in front of the large assortment of ritual offerings that were to be offered to the dewata. These included cooked rice died into four different colours(songkolo), eggs, a hen and a rooster, cigarettes, bananas, and coconuts. Mariani again began to chant, but this time hir chanting became erratic and frightening. Hir body began to shake and s/he became very angry. 'Where are the siri leaves?' These are an important part of the ceremony, but there were not enough of them. The spirit that possessed Mariani was furious and refused to give the blessing. Through Mariani the spirit conveyed that we could, however, perform the ceremony at the woman's house. By the time we arrived at Ibu Qadri's house it was dark. The altar and the offerings were set up in her living room, and the bissuadorned themselves in their powerful, magical (sakti) clothing. The ceremony began again. Everything was complete.
Mariani and the three other bissuperformed their chants. In order to honour the spirits who had possessed them, and hence bless Ibu Qadri's pilgrimage, the four bissuperformed the ma'giri. Each bissutook their little dagger(kris) and tried to force it into their throat. If a powerful spirit has possessed them, and if the blessing is successful, the kris will not penetrate and they will not bleed. On this occasion, when Mariani had completed the ma'giri, I noticed blood coming from hir neck (see cover photo).
Not till many months later did I venture to question this. The reason was that the spirit who possessed Mariani had not been very powerful. However, with the combined efforts of the four bissu, Haji Qadri did make the pilgrimage to Mecca. On her return, she requested another bissu ceremony to give thanks to the dewata for protecting her on her journey.
Calalai
This brings us to calalaiand calabai. Strictly speaking, calalai means 'false man' and calabai'false woman'. However, people are not harrassed for identifying as either of these gender categories. On the contrary, calalaiand calabai are seen as essential to completing the gender system. A useful analogy suggested to me by Dr Greg Acciaioli is to imagine the Bugis gender system of South Sulawesi as a pyramid, with the bissu at the apex, and men, women, calalai, and calabai located at the four base corners.
Calalai are anatomical females who take on many of the roles and functions expected of men. For instance, Rani works alongside men as a blacksmith, shaping kris, small blades and other knives. Rani wears men's clothing and ties hir sarong in the fashion of men. Rani also lives with hir wife and their adopted child, Erna. While Rani works with men, dresses as a man, smokes cigarettes, and walks alone at night, which are all things women are not encouraged to do, Rani is female and therefore not considered a man. Nor does Rani wish to become a man. Rani is calalai. Rani's female anatomy, combined with hir occupation, behaviour, and sexuality, allows Rani to identify, and be identified, as a calalai.
Calabai, conversely, are anatomical males who, in many respects, adhere to the expectations of women. However, calabai do not consider themselves women, are not considered women. Nor do they wish to become women, either by accepting restrictions placed on women such as not going out alone at night, or by recreating their body through surgery. However, whereas calalai tend to conform more to the norms of men, calabai have created a specific role for themselves in Bugis society.
If there is to be a wedding in Bugis society, more often than not calabai will be involved in the organisation. When a wedding date has been agreed upon, the family will approach a calabai and negotiate a wedding plan. The calabai will be responsible for many things: setting up and decorating the tent, arranging the bridal chairs, bridal gown, costumes for the groom and the entire wedding party (numbering up to twenty-five), makeup for all those involved, and all the food. Rarely did I attend a village wedding with less than a thousand guests. On the day, some calabai remain in the kitchen preparing food while others form part of the reception, showing guests to their seats.
Bissu, calalai, and calabai challenge the notion that individuals must conform to one of two genders, woman or man, and that one's anatomy must support one's gender. Bugis gender reveals the diverse nature of human identity. It makes me question our own notions of gender. For example, why should Australia insist on a boring old two-gender system?
Sharyn Graham (sharyngr@cyllene.uwa.edu.au) is researching her PhD at the University of Western Australia, Perth. All names are pseudonyms. Thanks to Nick Herriman.
Inside Indonesia 66: Apr - Jun 2001
Sex in the city
Between girl power and the mother image, young urban women struggle for identity
Yatun Sastramidjaja
While reformasi battles to clean up the old bureaucracy, young urban middle class women are contending with yet another New Order legacy. Every day they confront a Janus-faced social discourse on female gender, which wedges them between two conflicting ideals of femininity. One is the notion of a woman's inherent nature, or kodrat wanita, long fostered by the New Order. The other is the more recent popular notion of 'girl power'. As young women oscillate between these two strong images of female identity, they experience serious but usually hidden inner conflicts, particularly in the area of sexuality. Whereas kodrat wanita propagates the virtues of chastity and submissiveness, girl power celebrates the joys of sexual liberation. So which way should a girl turn?
The middle class, like the New Order generally, always held to a peculiar blend of conservatism and progressiveness. On the conservative side, the idea of kodrat wanita became visible in the New Order institution of Dharma Wanita (Women's Duty), an organisation every civil servant's wife was required to join. Practically all these wives were also middle class mothers. Their prime duty was to their families, the keystone upon which the nation's welfare was said to rest. Kodrat wanita is thus defined by the reproductive role of supportive wives and mothers, which partly consists of raising daughters to become good wives and mothers too.
However, the daughters had to do more than simply become good mothers. New Order and middle class aspirations also converged in a concern with progress (called development - pembangunan) and with upward social mobility for the younger generation. In order to elevate the socio-economic standing of both their family and the nation, middle class sons and daughters were urged to pursue higher education and ambitious careers.
For girls, this meant entering a modern way of life not always compatible with the standards of kodrat wanita. This is not to say that kodrat wanita became invisible. On the contrary, it is strongly represented in all modern media, be they televised soap operas or lifestyle magazines like Femina. But it does have to compete there with divergent and far more high profile images of strong femininity. The image of fashionably cosmopolitan, self-reliant, and positively liberated young women prevails in the modern mass media.
On the face of it, young women do indeed live up to this progressive ideal. When moving in a modern public space such as the campus or big city shopping mall, their looks and attitude give them the air of independent city girls. They appear ready for take-off in exciting careers, and to have fully adopted the principle of 'girl power' so popular in the West.
Ideally, middle class girls are supposed to merge the two roles of girl power and kodrat wanita without much difficulty. Yet in reality they are often confronted by stark contradictions. The duality of the social discourse on female gender produces moral confusion, in which the distinction between 'good' and 'bad' behaviour is no longer clearly defined. Such moral conflict, 'the clash between Western and Eastern values' as it is commonly called, is evident in the stories of two girls I befriended in Bandung. A striking feature of these conflicts is that they most often revolve around sexuality.
Double standards
Mia (22) comes from a respectable, well to do middle class family, part of my extended family in Indonesia. Over the years, on my regular family visits to that country, I saw her grow into an independent-minded young woman. I became like a big sister to her - she knew that I, an outsider living in the West, would not judge her. On my last visit to Bandung, Mia turned to me more than once in despair for advice, which I'm afraid I was not able to give to her full satisfaction, as her anguish has remained until today. She had fallen in love with a fellow student, of whom her parents disapproved. In order to restrict her contacts with him they frequently put her under house arrest. Her parents had her shadowed by a relative, and made a habit of eavesdropping on her phone conversations. Mia was infuriated by this treatment, which she considered unfair and altogether hampering of her freedom. But the experience also confused her - it was wholly inconsistent with her self-image of a modern liberated girl who determines her own fate.
Mia could not see how it could be wrong to follow her own choices, or how it could be right to repress her sexuality. 'Sharing love is normal, isn't it', she said, 'everybody is doing it, and it's not like I'm a slut; but then how come I'm made to feel that way?' Yet despite her dismay, she felt uneasy about arguing with her parents. No Indonesian girl, not even modern Mia, will easily get it into her head to openly show defiance. Instead, Mia felt there was no way out but to lie. She started to spend a lot of time making up secret schemes and alibis, thus leading a double life for the sake of pursuing her own choices. In this precarious way she tried to combine her self-image of a liberated girl with compliance to kodrat wanita norms. Of course this proved to be no solution. The game of double standards increasingly depressed her. Mia began to occasionally run away from home. At the time of my stay in Bandung she sometimes came to me, too baffled to speak or cry.
Much the same conflict emerges in the story of Dian (26), another member of my extended family who comes from a similar, somewhat more religious middle class family. We were very close as small children in Bandung in the 1970s, and after I moved to the Netherlands we corresponded for many years. At first sight, Dian appears a true paragon of female chastity. A devout Muslim wearing Islamic veil and dress, she always abides by her parents' wishes. When we were children, she used to make a great effort to teach me the virtues of kodrat wanita. She was afraid that I, a girl living in the West, would otherwise be unable to become the virtuous Indonesian woman I was born to be. To me this didn't make much sense, but to her, even as an eight-year old, kodrat wanita stood for everything her mother wanted her to be.
An acquiescent woman, Dian is engaged to a man of her parents' liking, she studied a major of her family's choice, and after graduation she returned to live with her parents so they could keep a close eye on her until the wedding day. Freedom of choice, in the Western individual sense, seems practically non-existent in her life. But for Dian this is not an issue of debate. She used to tell me in her letters to the Netherlands that it was 'really for my own good' to be more restricted than I was, and that it was her woman's duty to respect the wishes of her 'superiors', be they her parents or future husband, no matter what.
But contrary to her outward appearances, Dian is not the chaste and docile woman she wants everyone to believe she is. When we recently met again in Bandung and started to catch up on each other's lives the past few years, she told me all about her private fantasies and imaginary future scenario's of a more autonomous way of life. This perfectly matches the image of an independent career woman. Even more astonishingly, she confided that she had been sexually active for many years. Not only had she shared the bed with her fiance, but without his knowledge with other lovers as well.
Despite the religious prohibition on premarital sexual intercourse, Dian says she has no regrets. In her private view, 'American style' sexuality, as she calls having intercourse with several partners, is a normal fact of contemporary life. 'These days young women are not as inhibited as they used to be', she said, 'we acknowledge having desires too, just like men do'. However, Dian is aware that her sexual behaviour is still considered a sin in Indonesian society at large. And she admits to feeling deep guilt every day, not for her sexual behaviour per se, but for being hypocritical about it towards her parents and even more so in regard to her religiosity. It is this hypocrisy that makes her feel an 'immoral' woman.
Mia and Dian both feel burdened by their double lives, yet they feel impelled to maintain it. The same goes for many other Indonesian girls I know. Sexuality is part of the 'girl power' discourse and lifestyle, yet sexually active young women are still cast off into the corner of pornography. They are called a perek (perempuan eksperimen), the Indonesian word for slut, and are accused of indifferently throwing away the integrity of their bodies and thereby disgracing their personal and family's honour. Indeed, since women's bodies are often made to represent the moral integrity of all of society, they can be accused of disgracing the nation.
Young women are hardly to blame for the moral ambiguities of contemporary social life. Neither are they to blame for the paternalistic structures still persisting in Indonesian society, that deny them an equal voice in moral debate and thus cause girls like Mia and Dian to feel they are better off maintaining a frustrating double life. Where social discourse on gender, sexuality and morality is concerned, reformasi still has a long way to go.
Yatun L.M. Sastramidjaja (sastramidjaja@pscw.uva.nl) was born in the Netherlands but lived in Bandung as a small child and has made numerous family visits since then. She is researching a PhD at the University of Amsterdam, and is the author of the Dutch language book 'Dromenjagers in Bandung: Twintigers in het moderne Indonesie' (Amsterdam: Het Spinhuis, 2000).
Inside Indonesia 66: Apr - Jun 2001
Quo vadis, lesbians?
Lesbians want to be themselves
Bunga Jeumpa and Ulil
The progress of Indonesia's lesbian movement should not be measured by the yardstick of its gay movement. Nor by that of the Asian lesbian movement generally, even if they influence one another. It is honestly very difficult to build a movement for something that is so unpopular in the mainstream. Building socialist ideas is already difficult enough in Indonesia. During the New Order, just distributing Pramoedya's books was a battle.
The first lesbian group was formed in Jakarta in the 1980s. It was called Perlesin, short for Persatuan Lesbian Indonesia (Indonesian Lesbian Union). One of the curious features of this association is that it had a chapter of Dharma Wanita, usually reserved for the wives of bureaucrats. Saskia Wieringa, who has written about Perlesin, says they were a 'femme' group partnered with the butch group in Perlesin. Perlesin failed to reach the wider community, seemed to have no clear strategy, and folded soon after.
When the gay group Gaya Nusantara started in about 1986, lesbian groups began to orient themselves towards it through their activities as well as in their writing. The establishment of the Asian Lesbian Network (ALN) in 1989 inspired Indonesian lesbians to become more political. It led three people to set up the lesbian network Chandra Kirana in January 1993. Chandra Kirana published its own bulletin, which at the time was a big breakthrough to reduce alienation and widen public discourse.
Unfortunately the cooperative relationship with Gaya Nusantara did not last long. The gay men's movement did not provide enough space for a female group that had its own way of thinking. After the Second Lesbian and Gay Congress at the end of 1995, one protest letter from the lesbian community in Bandung (where the congress was held) said: 'There was not one session or workshop on lesbian issues, and the committee were all men. Why was Chandra Kirana ignored like that? That means we were all ignored.' An understanding that Gayatri felt she had with Dede Oetomo was also ignored. From that moment, Chandra Kirana tried to organise independently of the gay men's network.
Actually the organisation is not free from internal problems. The classic one is losing volunteers because of intervention from their own families. One was sent to Ambon just so she would be as far away from lesbian activities as possible. Others have been subjected to pressure or even violence from their families to make them 'return to normality'.
Nevertheless, the group continues to do its work. It wants to encourage more discussion of its way of life. One result is a book of short stories entitled Lines, written by Ratri M (2000), which tells about lesbian life in Indonesia. Lines is another word for lesbian in Indonesian.
None of this could have been achieved without Gayatri, the backbone of the group, one of its founders who remains true to her commitment. At the Indonesian Women's Coalition Congress held in Yogyakarta in December 1998, she was the only lesbian who dared to stand up and argue that lesbian concerns should become an advocacy issue for the Women's Coalition. One of the other founders, meanwhile, stayed still in her seat, Gayatri said afterwards.
With this recognition at a national level the lesbian movement entered a new era, that is, of political struggle within a gender framework. Not that this has stopped its activists from facing rejection. The poem (see box) is an illustration of that.
As activists within Chandra Kirana, we often wonder where our place really is. If we join the gay men's movement, we become the Second Sex and are coopted. If we join the Indonesian women's movement, we become like garlic among the onions - step sisters of the women's movement. Where do Indonesian lesbians want to go from here?
Bunga Jeumpa (bunga.jeumpa@eudoramail.com) is the coordinator of Chandra Kirana (www.swara.cjb.net/).
Satire
I just want to offer peaceSo the path we know will not lose its meaningHow happy I would be to know you do not see a leper before youNervously groping with her rotten fingerMaking a space between usOr perhaps I am just a flower eater to youWith savage passion devouring every breast or thigh I seeSo you can do disgusting things next to me
I am no homophobe, you say cheerfullyBut I don't see the sign of honesty in your eyesAll I see is your imagination screening pictures like a televisionAbout how good you would feel caught up at the end of my bootlacesAnd the fingers you spread out are invisible barriers To stop me from opening themOr about the 1000 men on your bedAnd the 1000 women under your bed
Never mind!Let's make peace, leave behindThe skin of hypocrisy and change the musicSo full of our sexual preference distinctions,Help me answer their question,How to eliminate the discrimination within anti-discrimination
(To a friend who often shares paper and pencil with me: BJD Gayatri)
Inside Indonesia 66: Apr - Jun 2001
Gay men in the reformasi era
Homophobic violence could be a by-product of the new openness
Dédé Oetomo
On the evening of November 11, 2000, a group of young volunteers organised an Aids education fair and party in the hill resort of Kaliurang, near Yogyakarta. They belonged to Lentera (meaning Oil Lamp), the Aids service wing of the Indonesian Planned Parenthood Association (PKBI) in Yogya.
Many national and international agencies have praised Lentera for reaching out and bringing in various stigmatised risk groups, such as gay men, male-to-female transgenders (waria), female sex workers, street children, as well as other people at risk but who have no particular societal identification, such as men who have sex with other men. Their approach is 'integrationist' - they do not directly challenge the conventional attitudes of the general public, yet are able to deliver effective services to those who are in need. People within Lentera often say their own philosophy is in line with the gentle Javanese belief in ngono ya ngono ning aja ngono, which you could translate as 'now you see it, now you don't'.
Lentera was started amid a wave of Aids activism in the early 1990s by a few young psychologists and planned parenthood activists, who saw the epidemic appearing on the horizon. From the very beginning a few concerned gay individuals 'integrated' themselves discreetly, often playing up the identity of an Aids activist rather than that of a gay activist. The events Lentera organised, however, always included an element of fun-filled entertainment, and there gay men and waria tended to predominate, if not in numbers then in ambience.
The Kaliurang event of November 2000 was called Kerlap-Kerlip Warna Kedaton 2000 (KKWK 2000, Flickers of Royal Court Colours). It was to be the second annual event where Aids activists could get together, take a break from the drudgery of activism, and share their knowledge with the general public in an entertaining way. There were stalls with Aids posters, condoms and lubricants, demonstration dildoes, gay magazines. A variety show combining entertainment and education was planned for the evening. Other people were there too, but the ambience was unmistakably campy. If not in number then in spirit, gay men and waria dominated the event.
KKWK 2000 became fatefully different compared to the first KKWK in 1999, and to other more ad hoc events in previous years. The event was held in the Hastorenggo Building, owned by the family of the sultan of Yogyakarta. As a sign of reformasi openness, members of the press were invited to cover it. They got more than they or the organisers bargained for. Around 9 pm, right in the middle of a campy fashion show, 150 men in traditional Muslim garb came in and attacked from the back rows, shouting 'Allahu Akbar!' The attack came without any warning. Wielding clubs, swords and machetes, and hurling soft drink bottles, the thugs attacked indiscriminately, forcing people in the audience to run towards the front part of the hall and through side doors to jump down to safety. The attackers then went from room to room, breaking down doors, and stealing wallets, handphones, small purses and the like.
The four policemen who were at hand could not cope with them, and called for help, which came soon afterwards. They apprehended 50-odd attackers, but these were soon released. Perhaps the police were afraid of a similar attack on their own premises, which would not be the first time.
The thugs claimed to represent a loose coalition called the Anti-Vice Movement (Gerakan Anti Maksiat (GAM). Some were members of the Ka'bah Youth Movement (Gerakan Pemuda Ka'bah, GPK), an organisation affiliated with the Muslim United Development Party (PPP). Others belonged to the Yogyakarta Mosque Youth (Remaja Masjid Yogyakarta). They launched their attack in the heightened moral atmosphere just ahead of the fasting month, Ramadhan.
Later, in the press, they justified their attack on the grounds that the Kaliurang event was a sex party of gays and waria. In the beginning of the subsequent media debate, KKWK 2000 organisers were given equal space. But it quickly became a one-sided affair, apparently because newspaper editors were threatened by GPK leaders and others claiming responsibility for the attack. A group of fifty-odd NGOs formed a coalition to protest the attack, but many soon left the ranks. Even the Yogya PKBI leadership was apparently under pressure to close down the program for gay men, waria and men who have sex with men.
New phase
I think we are entering a new phase in the development of Indonesian homosexualities, one where homophobic attacks, previously unknown, are becoming a bitter reality.
The attack on KKWK 2000 is not without precedent. Over the previous few months groups of men in traditional Muslim garb had been harassing gay men in the northern square in front of the sultan's palace, until then a safe gathering space. In the East Java town of Pasuruan a similar group paid a visit to a sometimes cross-dressing gay hair stylist and forced him to close down his business on the grounds that it was a den of vice. He argued back. The local branch of the political party PDIP advocated on his behalf, and he was able to keep his business open. In September 1999, following a huge demonstration by students and other elements against then-president Habibie during his visit to Solo, members of the Surakarta Front for the Defence of Islam (Front Pembela Islam Surakarta, FPIS) threatened to kill gay activists. The activists were planning a national working meeting of the Indonesian Network of Lesbians and Gay Men (Jaringan Lesbian dan Gay Indonesia, JLGI).
So while reformasi has brought a sense of widening democratic space, the flip side is these homophobic attacks. What are we to make of them?
One important answer, in my opinion, is a greatly increased public awareness of the variety of human sexualities. Since the 1980s, the media have begun to sensationalise phenomena like homosexuality. In the 1990s this combined with the drive against HIV/Aids to make possible much more open discussion of sexualities. There is now a new understanding of gender and sexuality.
True, many misunderstandings remain, but they are eroding. The old blurring of waria and gays persists, but one can now discern a separation among waria and gay men (which in some localities has even resulted in a mini-identity politics). More people are realising that there are gay men (pronounced 'gaai') who have sex with other men. Perhaps a more serious blurring happened when in the late 1990s people discovered 'sodomites', ie. adult men who rape young boys and kill them afterwards. This added to the frightening element of the unknown which is homosexuality. To a lesser extent the same blurring is happening to lesbian identities. The Indonesian Women's Coalition for Justice and Democracy (Koalisi Perempuan Indonesia untuk Keadilan dan Demokrasi) explicitly mentions lesbian issues as one of the fifteen issues facing women, but often they find it difficult to get representatives of lesbian communities to join.
However, more than increased awareness of sexualities lies behind the public attacks. In the reformation era we have also seen a rise of attacks on brothels, discotheques, pubs, and the like. The attack on gay men and KKWK 2000 must be seen as part of this wave. The attackers could be people of true religious faith, but more often they were shady elements of society. Those who came within close proximity of the KKWK 2000 attackers, for instance, reported smelling alcohol on their breath. The breakdown of law and order that accompanied the resignation of Suharto seems to give them an excuse to run on the rampage, as it were.
Perhaps we should understand both the opening up of democratic space for gay men and the attacks from the thugs and other elements as related sides of the same emerging phenomenon. While one can say it is a price to pay, one can also say that the attacks have made gay people and waria more militant and resistant to the dominant ideology of conservative morality. Even if it is not free from the risk of reactionary attacks, we may be witnessing the beginning of profound change in Indonesia's sexual morality.
Dédé Oetomo (gayanusa@ilga.org) is the coordinator of GAYa NUSANTARA (http://welcome.to/gaya). He lives in Surabaya.
Inside Indonesia 66: Apr - Jun 2001
Jakarta women's barefoot bank
Poor kampung women double their income through their own micro-credit scheme
Lea Jellinek
In May 1999, Bambang Rustanto and I set up Kesuma Multiguna, an NGO which aimed to work with poor kampung dwellers in Jakarta. We were both dissatisfied with our experiences of international consulting. Poverty projects gave consultants like us good work, good money, and good opportunities, but left the poor unchanged. With the economic crisis of 1997-99 and subsequent big government spending on the Social Safety Net, we saw how the poverty excuse was used yet again to enrich aid agencies, consultants, and government departments. We decided to try to develop programs which would really reach the urban poor. We chose Jakarta because it seemed the most neglected and difficult place. We had set ourselves a challenge, and were by no means sure we could succeed.
We chose to focus on the area surrounding the Anggrek Mall in Slipi, West Jakarta. The mall is a towering structure with condominiums on top and the latest in shopping complexes underneath, complete with ice-skating rink. As you drive in from the airport, it looks like a surreal castle. It is surrounded by cloverleaf freeways, which have literally been imposed on top of a village. It is thus a mixture of very rich and very poor, new and old, modern and traditional. Kampung communities are imprisoned on all sides by high cement walls and multistorey developments.
Suspicious
My colleague Bambang comes from among the poor and communicates well with them. From working on the streets as a trader with his mother, he had learnt that capital for the purchase of trading stock was their most basic need. Many of the poor have small trades - cooked foods, vegetable selling, ginger medicine making, selling clothes on credit - but they lack enough capital to buy adequate stocks. This limits their sales and income.
The first task was to find one neighbourhood where the program could be tested. We spent two months familiarising ourselves with the poorest communities. Most of those we initially approached were suspicious. They had become disillusioned with government programs in the past, and thought this might be similar. Others - especially when they saw a white person - thought distrustfully that it had something to do with Christian proselytising. And still others adopted a handout mentality, thinking we were bringing gifts.
Eventually, however, one group of ten women in the poorest area beside the Grogol Canal was ready to take out loans. A dynamic and caring woman - the wife of the local headman - organised the group. She already ran the traditional rotating credit group, and our intentions were that our credit program would grow out of and build on this group. Neighbours started to talk about our program, and within one month another group had requested loans. Information spread surprisingly rapidly by word of mouth. After eighteen months, over 520 women were part of the savings and borrowing scheme, and there had not been one default.
We chose to work with women because they are the core of the household. They know everybody in their neighbourhood. They know who can and cannot be trusted. They are the ones who run the household enterprises which feed the local population. These enterprises often keep the family going while their husbands are unemployed or seeking work. The women are most concerned about their children's future, and traditionally hold the family purse strings. Moreover, men are out on the city streets seeking an income and thus much more difficult to monitor compared to the women who are reliably present in the kampung.
The first task when forming a group was to find a trusted local leader. Neighbourhood women were asked whom they most admired and who cared for them when they were in difficulties. When most of the fingers pointed at one woman, she was approached to be the leader. She then had the chore of deciding who would be the borrowers. We wanted to reach the poorest of the poor, but at the same time we could not afford default. In most cases, the borrower had to have a viable enterprise. Mostly petty traders were able to get a loan. The head of the group knew each borrower personally - their homes fronted onto one another's houses and they met along the pathways each day. They had lived next to each other for many years and knew each other's life stories. Over a year and a half, eighteen different neighbourhoods formed a savings and borrowers group. The numbers in each group varied from ten to sixty people.
'Interest'
Borrowing was done in stages. The first loan amounted to Rp 100,000 (A$20). It was paid back over the next five months in monthly installments of Rp 20,000 (A$4). In addition, each borrower paid Rp 2000 (A$0.40) every month to cover operating costs and insurance against default. Once they had paid back this amount, they could take out a larger loan of Rp 200,000 (A$40). On each satisfactory repayment, the amount of a subsequent loan could be increased, up to a maximum of Rp 500,000 (A$80). As the program progressed, we felt we wanted to encourage savings as an integral part of borrowing. For every Rp 100,000 borrowed, Rp 5000 was put aside into a savings account for the borrower, and they had a bankbook to prove it.
We constantly agonised over the amount of interest - called 'operating costs' because Muslims generally do not like the idea of interest. Bankers had warned us that if we wanted to remain viable, we had to charge market rates of 20-30 percent interest per annum. This sounds very high by Australian standards, but was in line with Indonesian banks. Furthermore, most of the people we were lending to had, at one time or another, been indebted to illegal moneylenders, who charge interest rates of 300 percent per annum. So kampung dwellers were pleased with the rates we were offering. The aim was to ultimately make the savings and credit system self-sustaining, so that it would not rely on outside funding to keep the office and staff running.
For the first four months, most of the staff worked for free. We had no desks, tables, or computers, but had to work on the floor. The kampung dwellers themselves started to offer us tables and chairs. Eventually Daimler Benz Jakarta gave us some old computers that they were replacing. During the first six months, all the details had been written in children's notebooks. Eighteen months later, all borrower records were computerised, so we could clearly see how many loans they had taken out and how much they had borrowed, saved, and repaid. A staff member who eighteen months earlier had not known anything about computers had become computer-literate.
From the initial groups of borrowers we recruited the most able, unemployed women to be part of our office staff. They had been secretaries and treasurers in supermarkets and shops before the economic crisis. After losing their jobs, they had become impoverished and despairing. It was these young women who lived in the kampung and had knowledge of kampung economics and trade who helped us design the micro-credit system. It was their ideas that formed the core of the program, and they designed the accounting system.
After four months, the staff could no longer afford to volunteer their services. They came from poor families and their husbands were annoyed that their wives were working without bringing home any resources. Although the staff had special borrowing rights from the program, they needed proper salaries if the micro-credit program was to be viable. The 'interest' or 'operating costs' had to cover their salaries.
Another aspect of the program was that it was conducted within peoples' homes like a 'barefoot doctor' scheme. Two of our staff would come to the home of the group leader each month, bringing cash from the bank. They would explain the details of the program, while the women sat in a circle and the money was piled up in front of them on the floor. After each woman signed the necessary documents, they received their loan.
Six months after starting the program, it was a joy to walk through the kampungs. Women came out and embraced us. We were greeted everywhere - no longer the sullen, doubting stares. Instead, many told us that their incomes had doubled from A$1 to A$2 per day. Moreover, a network of women was being created through the communities that belonged to the program. Our staff spread information about the available goods and services from one neighbourhood to another, and this may have expanded inter-neighbourhood trade.
We were painfully aware that the poorest of the poor, such as washerwomen and casual labourers, were still unable to borrow, because they lacked enterprises. We regarded the micro-credit program as a first step to gain entry and trust in the community. From this we are developing other programs for the really poor - nutrition, a lending program for health and schooling, monthly medical clinics and a neighbourhood library.
Lea Jellinek (leajell@ozemail.com.au) lives in Taggerty, Victoria, Australia. She is the author of 'The wheel of fortune: The history of a poor community in Jakarta' (1991).
Inside Indonesia 66: Apr - Jun 2001
Box - Women and the nation
Rifka Annisa is educating the community about the nature of domestic violence
Wineng Endah
The women's crisis centre (WCC) Rifka Annisa opened here in Yogyakarta in 1993. At the time we were the only one in Indonesia. We were concerned about domestic violence, dating violence, sexual harassment, rape and violence against children. However, we decided to focus on violence against wives. We aim to educate the community about the nature of domestic violence, as it is often taboo and considered the province of the family alone.
Women who come to our office to seek help receive psychological counselling as well as legal advice and aid if needed. They can join a group where they meet with other women with similar experiences, to share and support one another. If necessary, the women are offered shelter.
Almost all come for help confused and without the knowledge of their husbands. They hear about the WCC from other women, as well as via seminars and workshops we conduct with other organisations. We also have a regular column in the Sunday edition of the local Yogyakarta newspaper, Kedaulatan Rakyat, where women write in for advice. Below the letter we invite women to contact us by phone.
They come to our centre from all backgrounds, however middle class and educated women can take greater advantage of our facilities. To reach out to village people, we have been working the last six months to set up a community-based centre in the Gunung Kidul area east of Yogyakarta. We bring together likely village leaders, both men and women, and try to gradually raise their awareness through discussions and workshops. At first we must disguise the issues in less confrontational terms, though of course we can talk about rape and sexual harassment, as all community members agree these are violations. We hope that eventually this group will be able to take initiative to intervene in cases of domestic violence in their village. This will be the first time something like this is tried in a village in Indonesia. If it is successful we hope to set up other groups like it.
We approached the police and hospitals in Yogya to try to get them to recognise the special needs of domestic violence victims. The police have been very cooperative and we have helped them establish special consultation rooms in police stations. The Panti Rapih Hospital in Yogyakarta now has a special unit for such women, where they can be transferred from other sections of the hospital. We used to have to scan newspapers for stories to find the women we should be helping. Now police and hospital staff contact Rifka Annisa for help with counselling.
Wineng Endah (rifka@yogya.wasantara.net.id), coordinator for community relations, (web www.rifka.annisa.or.id).
Inside Indonesia 66: Apr - Jun 2001
Women and the nation
Throughout its history, outsiders wanted the women's movement to be nationalist first of all. Now women are finding their own voice
Susan Blackburn
For most of its history the Indonesian women's movement has been framed, energised and constrained by two dominant paradigms: nationalism and developmentalism. In the last couple of years we have seen the movement emerge from the straitjacket of these ideas and spreadin many new directions. It has gained its autonomy at last in the 'malestream' mainstream of politics, albeit in circumstances that make the leadership of the movement anxious and insecure. Such is the price of liberation.
The Indonesian women's movement, seen broadly as a social movement to express the concerns of Indonesian women, emerged early in the twentieth century at the same time as the nationalist movement. They were fed by similar forces of socio-economic growth (especially urbanisation), modern education, improved communications and contact with international ideas. Early feminism's (or proto-feminism) best-known exponent was Kartini, a woman whose life was transformed by ideas derived from a Western education, ideas that generated discontent and aspirations for greater autonomy for women. Women began to form modern organisations to pursue their own concerns, and to air new views in the press.
Barely had the women's movement got under way than it was captured by the nationalist movement. This was obvious at the first women's congress in 1928. The very notion of an 'Indonesian' women's congress foregrounded its nationalist drive. Most participants framed their speeches in nationalist terms, linking the pursuit of women's interests to those of national unity and independence.
This was not always a comfortable combination. Some speakers were more preoccupied with issues of particular interest to women, such as schooling and early marriage, than they were with nationalism. Others were at loggerheads with one another, undermining any pretence of national unity. The divisions were mainly religious.
However, many women's organisations persisted in trying to create a united nationalist women's movement. Various federations and umbrella organisations dominated the movement in subsequent decades. The current federation, Kowani, the Indonesian Women's Congress, is part of this history. These bodies were always based on the ideal of Indonesian national unity, which frequently came before women's concerns. Issues that created disagreement among member organisations were discouraged, notably differences between Islamic and non-Islamic women's groups.
In the 1930s the most radical women's organisation of the day, Isteri Sedar, left the women's federation over issues perceived to be sensitive to Muslims. It saw the need to provide greater equity in marriage for Islamic women as more important than anything else. In particular it opposed current practices in the Islamic courts which permitted child marriage, arbitrary divorce of wives by their husbands, and husbands' unrestricted right to marry up to four wives. The Indonesian women's congress, however, preferred to downplay this issue in order to keep the peace with religious groups that opposed changes they regarded as undermining Islamic family law.
Accepting nationalism as a foundation plank not only meant subordinating some women's concerns in order to preserve unity. It also gained the women's movement the hostility of the Dutch colonial government, which was otherwise quite sympathetic towards its cause of improving the situation of women. Life was made difficult for a number of prominent women leaders of the day. S K Trimurti was imprisoned, while others found it hard to work and organise.
On the other hand, adopting nationalism also served the women's movement well in many ways. It won the support of the male-led nationalist movement, which was important in the longer term, when Indonesia finally gained independence, proclaimed in 1945. Women's support for the armed struggle for independence in the period 1945-9 won it further favour. The democratic government of the new Republic easily granted all sorts of legal rights to women in areas like constitutional equality, the right to vote, and equal pay in the civil service.
Yet the main concern of the women's movement in independent Indonesia, a uniform marriage law, was ignored by the male-dominated political system, which feared (quite legitimately) that focussing on that issue would arouse the wrath of Islamic parties.
As President Sukarno gained in power in the late 1950s and early 1960s, nationalism became increasingly strident and overwhelmed the women's movement. One of the few mass-based women's organisations of the time, Gerwani, sold out its specifically women's concerns in favour of wooing Sukarno's support through a strongly anti-imperialist orientation, as directed by the Indonesian Communist Party (PKI) with which it was aligned.
Some regions of the country had been so alienated by increasingly centralised rule from Jakarta that they revolted, and women's organisations in those areas became preoccupied with the consequences of rebellion.
New Order
When Sukarno's rule disastrously collapsed, the New Order that succeeded it maintained an equally strong nationalist ideology imposed through an impressive state apparatus of control.
President Suharto undertook not only to restore the country's economy from the disarray into which Sukarno's exploits had plunged it, but also to embark upon an ambitious program of socio-economic development. This had considerable advantages for the women's movement, since women benefited from greater order (at least after the initial massacres of 1965-6), from growing employment opportunities in the expanded economy, and from greatly improved education, health and other services.
The price they paid, however, was the mobilisation of the women's movement by the state. The regime set about 'cleansing' the women's movement by outlawing and demonising radical groups like Gerwani. It exerted strict control over the women's federation, Kowani, exploiting it for its own development purposes. The New Order boosted the role of the 'wives' organisations', such as Dharma Wanita (the wives of state employees), and created a new mass-based organisation, the Family Guidance Welfare Movement or PKK.
Apart from strictly non-political religious groups, the PKK was the only organisation permitted to sign up village women as members. PKK helped implement official development plans like the family planning program, which arguably brought great benefit to rural women by providing them with cheap or free contraceptives, albeit accompanied by considerable pressure and lack of adequate information or a wide range of choice.
In 1974 the authoritarian New Order gave the women's movement what it had long craved, a uniform marriage law that offered women more legal protection and certainty in marriage than the vast majority of them had previously had under the largely unsupervised and exclusively male-run Islamic legal system. Since 1974, the religious courts have been closely controlled by the government. Women have frequently been appointed as judges, and decisions, particularly about divorce and polygamy, are less arbitrary and weighted against wives.
Of course the Marriage Law was also useful to a government seeking to base its development plans on small, stable families. It could also be seen as a trade-off for getting the women's movement to provide unpaid labour for the government's development strategy.
By the last decade of the New Order, women, like many other sectors of society, grew restive under the restrictions enforced by an authoritarian regime relying on a nationalist and developmentalist ideology.Especially better-educated middle class young women chafed at the dominance of stuffy 'wives' organisations'. Lower-class women were deprived of any way of voicing their aspirations and grievances.
Middle class women began setting up new and often overtly feminist organisations, that sometimes claimed to defend the interests of poor women like overseas migrant workers, a growing category in recent years. They used support from international sources to their advantage to carve out a niche for their concerns. The fact that international conferences, supported by the Indonesian government, were trumpeting ideas like participation, empowerment, and opposition to domestic violence, gave the new organisations some legitimacy. Reluctantly, New Order discourse began to shift towards this rhetoric and to create official bodies like the Ministry for Women's Role that gave the new ideas a toe-hold in government.
However, the gradual adjustments the New Order was making in its final years were overwhelmed by the avalanche of reformasi that followed the economic collapse of 1997-98. The ideological edifice of the old regime was demolished. First Habibie and then Wahid recognised that the old ideas of tightly centralised nationalism and rapid economic growth were no longer viable. These two presidents were conciliatory towards the rising tide of regional dissatisfaction with Jakarta, tolerant of pluralism, and unable to buy off opponents with the fruits of economic growth.
Freedom
The atmosphere is heady. In some ways the situation reminds us of the first couple of decades of the twentieth century, when women began exploring a range of new ideas, before any ideologies had begun to gel and become exclusive. Enjoying the new freedom, innumerable new women's organisations have blossomed, based on local concerns as well as international ideas ranging from religious revivalism and reform to human rights and feminism.
Virtually unrestricted, the media expose the new trends freely. The ranks of government provide sympathetic niches such as the newly created National Commission on Violence Against Women and the renamed Ministry for the Empowerment of Women.
In a climate where foreign aid has become more important than it has been for years, international influence on behalf of women has gained increasing clout. Aid agencies support women's organisations working in previously neglected areas, such as reproductive health amongst Islamic women.
For many women, however, the end of the New Order's grip must feel as painful as abandoning foot-binding did for older Chinese women! There is no structure, no order. Violence has proliferated in new forms, and women and children suffer disproportionately among the refugees from military repression and separatist and communal strife. Women's organisations in places like Aceh, Maluku and Papua are called on to patch up the wounds of violence, to work for peace, to provide subsistence support for displaced people. This resembles not liberation but misery.
The women's movement, like everything else, is in transition. Ideologically, nationalism and developmentalism have lost their grip. Regional diversity and even separatism assert themselves. The Jakarta cliques, also within the women's movement, have to backpedal to avoid accusations of dominance. These differences surfaced at the women's congress of December 1998, which some saw as an attempt to bring together women's organisations under an alternative umbrella similar to that of Kowani. Triumphalist developmentalism has taken a beating. PKK and the wives' organisation Dharma Wanita, its main channels within the women's movement, are struggling to regroup.
No universalising ideology looks likely to gain dominance.Rather, there are competing paradigms, including human rights, Islam, and international feminism. The movement is fragmented, and any effort to manufacture a strong umbrella organisation looks likely to fail.
In my view, however, this is no cause for concern. A women's movement does not need to be united It needs rather to represent women in all their diversity. Shifting and temporary alliances have been and will continue to be formed between organisations on particular issues like opposition to violence against women.
Rather than relying on an umbrella group that has the ear of the government at the expense of being tied to it, as Kowani has been, women's organisations will need to learn how to build a mass base and be more politically effective in rallying support from local, national and international allies. Some already have these skills, and can be expected to hone them further in the future, taking advantage of the democratic space provided since the fall of Suharto.
At a time of considerable uncertainty and even peril for many women, the Indonesian women's movement has thrown off the bridle into which it was forced by adopting increasingly hegemonic versions of nationalism and developmentalism. It is now facing its new freedom with a mixture of exhilaration and trepidation.
Dr Susan Blackburn (Sue.Blackburn@arts.monash.edu.au) is senior lecturer in the Department of Politics, Monash University, Melbourne, Australia. She is writing a book on the history of the women's movement in Indonesia.
Inside Indonesia 66: Apr - Jun 2001
Out in front
This energetic cabinet minister wants more power for women, fast
Vanessa Johanson talks with Khofifah Indar Parawansa
At 35, Khofifah Indar Parawansa is the youngest cabinet member ever. She is also the only minister ever to give birth in office. Determination and a healthy sense of irony have served her well. 'The word gender is still alien to most people in this country,' she says. 'Recently I was in Central Java, and one of the heads of local government said to me: Oh gender, that means transvestites (banci), doesn't it?' She shrieks with laughter.
'Other people think gender means ladies' business. I get asked to a lot of "ladies' programs" on the sidelines of the main, "men's" activity. But I refuse to go unless all participants come, including the men.'
One of Khofifah's first actions was to change the name to the Ministry of State for Women's Empowerment. She wants to give women more power within a male dominated system. With a small budget and staff, she focuses on lobbying - other sections of government, the media and religious organisations.
'In ministerial coordination and cabinet meetings, we often spend all our time talking about the latest emergencies. It's hard to get gender on the agenda. But the important thing is that gender is taken into account in practice. We go to the ministers individually and ask them: "How many women work in your department, and how are your programs taking into account justice for women?"'
'Women's representation within the bureaucracy is very poor. It is easy for women to enter at the lowest level, but how many women do we have at the top level? One of the main problems is education. Every time there is an opportunity for further education, it is always men who are sent.' Women make up only seven percent of the top three public service echelons.
She also wants more women in parliament. In the 1999 elections, the percentage of women in the national legislature actually fell from 11.62% to 9.82%. 'We are concerned that the new (proposed) general elections act will make matters worse. Women candidates won't get even ten percent under a district rather than a proportional system of voting. Maybe we can learn from the non-government organisations,' she jokes, 'they are mostly led by women!'
Motor
'I want women to be the motor of democratisation. With the New Order women's organisations like Dharma Wanita, wellI told them frankly that they were becoming redundant. Their whole focus is the domestication of women. But as part of the government I can't just tell the old women's organisations to close down. I just keep reminding them that the community is very dynamic, that they will be judged by the community.'
Khofifah is a high-speed but persuasive speaker. Legislative change is another priority. 'We are grateful that women's rights were inserted into the constitution last year. The problem is, when people talk about human rights, they often translate "human" as "men". Women and children are not included as humans with rights. There are still about eight acts which have no gender perspective. We are trying to get them changed.'
Attitudes of judges also need to change. Under current law, the maximum sentence for rape is twelve years too low, she says yet judges usually sentence rapists to only seven months. Khofifah proposed to the Minister for Justice and Human Rights that in a rape case, at least one judge must be a woman. He scoffed at the suggestion as discriminatory.
Khofifah faces challenges also within her own ranks. She was an activist in the Indonesian Muslim Student Movement (PMII), then joined the Islamic party PPP, and finally, with Abdurrahman Wahid's encouragement, joined the NU-based National Awakening Party (Partai Kebangkitan Bangsa, PKB) when it was established in 1999. In all of these organisations, she says, there are many men, particularly religious teachers (kiai), who simply do not understand the role of women in politics. 'Even many of the women themselves don't have the confidence to stand for preselection.'
'None of the political parties have a quota system for women candidates. If women are in the leadership, it is usually as treasurer. That is regarded as a housewife's job!'
Khofifah is not afraid of controversy. In September 2000 she agreed with the annulment of the seventeen-year old ban on polygamy for public servants, not because she believed they have a right to practice this Islamic custom, but because 'there doesn't need to be a formal ban on polygamy. Men should be ashamed of themselves and self-aware enough not to want to practice it.'
In July 2000, she called for a moratorium on the export of women as domestic workers, particularly to the Middle East. Around 3- 400,000 women are sent overseas each year. Many are abused and exploited. The moratorium call sparked a furious response from the lucrative industry.
On abortion, Khofifah's views contrast starkly with many feminists. 'The increase in the number of abortions is related to the growing modern lifestyle that encourages promiscuity and drug use among teenagers,' she told the Jakarta Post in February 2000. 'As chief of the National Family Planning Board, I will never recommend abortion as part of the family planning program.' At the time, the Post reported, Khofifah blamed women for resorting to abortion.
Share
Khofifah gave birth to her fourth child in April 2000. Asked the inevitable question of how she juggles packed domestic and public lives, she replies irritably:
'Look, it's a commitment between two people to have children. Men of course cannot give birth. But once the child is born, everything becomes the job of both partners in the relationship. That's how we manage to have time for all that we do we share the responsibility.'
'Still, many women suffer terribly in motherhood,' she adds. With an astounding memory for statistics, Khofifah rattles off the deaths-in-childbirth rates for several countries, concluding: 'In Indonesia our target is a maximum of 125 deaths per 100,000 live births. At the moment it is 373.'
'We cannot end the marginalisation of women without raising their standard of living. Most women live in villages, yet they still don't have access to farm credit programs. There is a policy - unwritten, I think - that loans are only for men. So women are condemned to be farm labourers only. How can they raise their standard of living?'
Prominent women activists are proud of Khofifah's achievements. Says Karlina Leksono, founder of Suara Ibu Peduli: 'Khofifah is serious about structural change for women. She has declared a national program of zero tolerance of violence against women. One practical outcome is the women's crisis centres in hospitals. She is pushing for changes in the penal code for rape and violence against women. I have long been a great admirer of Khofifah.'
Saparinah Sadli, founder and chair of the National Commission on Violence Against Women, who was offered and turned down the position of women's minister, is also full of praise: 'She is very energetic and focused. It's a pity the rest of the government can't keep up with her.'
Vanessa Johanson (vjohanson@eudoramail.com) is an adviser with the Indonesian Human Rights Commission (Komnas HAM). This exclusive interview was recorded on 25 January 2001.
Inside Indonesia 66: April-June 2001
Wisanggeni, Ned Kelly, and Tommy
A new novel explores the ambiguous role of the outlaw in today's Indonesia
Marshall Clark
Back in May 1998, just a few days before president Suharto resigned, like most Westerners in Indonesia I was lying low and keeping out of trouble. This strategy allowed me to catch the late Saturday-night wayang kulit puppet show on Indosiar, apparently one of Indonesia's highest rating TV programs. The name of the puppetmaster, or dalang, escapes me, however the star of the show, Wisanggeni, was unforgettable. Small and petite in stature, Wisanggeni spoke in a high-pitched voice in ngoko, low Javanese, and, on a rampage against the gods, he parried, thrusted, somersaulted and taunted with the best of them. After the death of each adversary, he broke into an energetic victory dance. Considering the context of economic crisis, riots, and reformasi, my question was obvious: was Wisanggeni a student in disguise?
I later discovered that Wisanggeni is one of several Mahabharata characters indigenous to Java, and almost for this reason alone he enjoys great popularity. His popularity might also have something to do with his status as an outlaw and a rebel. Even before his birth, Wisanggeni was hunted by the gods, who are horrified by this offspring of a brief union between the playboy Arjuna, a mere 'human,' and the goddess Dewi Dresanala.
The gods are also aware that his weapons and magical powers make Wisanggeni totally invincible, which, in the context of the equally weighted fratricidal conflict between the Pandawa and the Kurawa cousins, is disastrous. According to popular understanding, if Wisanggeni were to participate in the great war at the climax of the Mahabharata, the Pandawa would almost certainly win, but at great personal cost. Eventually, for the sake of his family, Wisanggeni sees reason and relents, ascending into the heavens.
In the years after Suharto fell, Wisanggeni has proven himself an irresistable hero, the star of a story with purpose, passion, and pain. By opposing the will of the gods, and by refusing to use the polite registers of Javanese, Wisanggeni at once represents the dissatisfactions of the common people of Java and Indonesia who sympathise with him, as well as being set apart from them by his outlaw status.
Ned Kelly
Since 1998, Wisanggeni has appeared as a major figure in two critically acclaimed novels, Ayu Utami's Saman (1998) and Seno Gumira Ajidarma's Wisanggeni sang buronan (2000). He also appeared in a major drama production by Teater Tetas, Wisanggeni berkelebat (2000), the script of which was written by Arya Dipayana. As an oppositional figure, Wisanggeni clearly still has much to offer, much like Australia's own outlaw of stature, Ned Kelly. In the words of Graham Seal, author of Ned Kelly in popular tradition, '[To] most of us he is somehow essentially Australian. Ned Kelly has secured the national pedestal because the image that we have made of him has been our own. As long as most Australians see themselves, no matter how realistically, as tough, resourceful and independent pioneer types who give everyone a fair go but take no nonsense from anyone, Ned Kelly will endure. Perhaps we will too.'
The Wisanggeni placed on a pedestal (or is it stabbed into a banana trunk?) by the likes of Ayu, Seno, and Teater Tetas is by no means deliberately represented as a figure of political rebellion. Yet Wisanggeni's rebellious spirit, and the fact that he is a fugitive living outside the rule of the gods, can easily be understood as the focus for an alternative set of values, a rallying point for resistance against the Indonesian status quo.
However, when I spoke with Seno Gumira Ajidarma in Jakarta in November 2000, soon after the hunt for 'Tommy Suharto: Outlaw of the People' was launched, I realised that too many Wisanggenis might be too much of a good thing. In Seno's words: 'The problem with Indonesia is that it has too many Wisanggenis.' Tommy aside, there has been no shortage of Wisanggenis clamouring for attention, be they in the form of Sukarno clones, the clown-god Semar, or the long-awaited mythical Javanese saviour, the Ratu Adil. Many would even go so far as to say that Indonesia cannot benefit from any new Wisanggenis anyway, as she has already, as it were, lost the plot.
Meanwhile, in Seno's narration of the Wisanggeni legend, the opposite occurs. When Wisanggeni accepts the need to withdraw from the wayang realms, the plot of the Mahabharata is not lost but saved. In Seno's version, Wisanggeni does not ascend, Jesus-like, to heaven. Instead, he flies off, dips in and out of a few clouds, and ends up about 2000 feet above the sultan's palace in Yogyakarta, just in time to catch the last few scenes of a wayang kulit performance!
Intriguingly, the tale being performed is the very same tale that Wisanggeni had been enacting on the pages of Seno's novel. As the gamelan plays on, Wisanggeni slips in amongst the sleeping audience and sits behind the screen, watching the shadows of Arjuna and Kresna, who are discussing whether Wisanggeni has accepted his fate. At this point Wisanggeni, who looks like a tramp, bursts into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. The audience, however, fail to see the humour and, thinking he is mad, drag him off to be thrown out into the street.
Such a callous denouement to the novel is most unexpected, but in many respects Wisanggeni's fate sits perfectly with the rest of the novel. Earlier, Wisanggeni's life is often defined in terms of fiction. Even principal actors in his life story, such as Batara Brahma, are aware that Wisanggeni is but part of an extraordinary drama. However, Batara Brahma is unaware of how Wisanggeni's tale will unfold, even as he unfolds it himself. 'O dear holy baby, the child of fate', wept Batara Brahma uncontrollably, 'what tale is it that comes with your life, to the point where your grandfather is duty-bound to kill you?' (p39). Therefore, by leaving the relative safety of his fictional wayang world, Wisanggeni is confronted with a different type of threat, the threat of the 'real world.'
Fried dog
I use the word 'threat' here guardedly, as the world of contemporary Indonesia is only threatening when viewed in comparison to the comparative safety, predictability, and beauty of the wayang world. One narrative technique in particular highlights this point: the strategic usage of suluk verses, which are usually sung throughout wayang performances. The suluk verses in Seno's novel, however, not only present the majestic scenes of poetic beauty common to the traditional wayang world, but also foreshadow the sense of decay and lurking danger one may assume is inherent in the contemporary world outside the wayang universe. The juxtaposition between the 'heaven' of the wayang world and the 'hell' of the real world reminds us of the postmodern clichthat reality is as much a fictional representation as fiction itself.
The first suluk of Wisanggeni sang buronan, which from my observations has puzzled both critics and dalangalike, juxtaposes the timeless beauty of a lotus in a pond with the depravity of eating pork satay and fried dog:
a song for a scholar passed away, o, pork satay and fried dog o, how the oil oozes and drips and a lotus blossoms in a small pond awaiting the love of the outlaw, o!
Other suluk describe haunting Dante-esque images of burning wayang screens, drunk poets, debauchery, prostitutes, marijuana smoke, flowing arak beer, blood coughed up, and cold-blooded murder. Just as the narrator alludes more than once to the distant sound of gamelan accompanying his account, the suluk verses act as a significant point of convergence between the wayang world and the real world of contemporary Indonesia.
Despite the points of convergence, the two worlds are separate entities. So much so that, once Wisanggeni unwittingly disturbs the real world of Yogyakarta, he is no longer considered an outlaw representing the interests and perceived injustices of the supportive masses. On the contrary, his uncontrolled laughter at dawn confirms his reputation as a madman. Ironically, now that Wisanggeni, through death, has lost his fictional self, as reflected in the metafictional allusions throughout the novel, we find that the fictional self is hardly an object at all. It is a mere shadow, as it were.
In other words, Wisanggeni's self of real life imitates the self of fiction, only in reverse. Just as the gods reject Wisanggeni outright, and therefore attempt to wipe him from the Mahabharata slate, the audience at the wayang kulit in Yogya are equally unable to see the tramp as anything more than a madman, and so they too regard him as a threat to the natural order of the world. Wisanggeni's status as an outlaw is doubly ambivalent: on the one hand he has given up his fight against the gods, but on the other hand he is on the run from the very people who would normally consider him a kindred spirit.
Despite the imaginative use of narrative techniques such as metafiction and suluk to highlight the instability and lack of fixed identity of fiction and reality, the key point to emerge from such an unexpected climax to the novel appears to be ultimately political. Wisanggeni's fate suggests that for Indonesia's Mahabharata to continue, more and more of Indonesia's Wisanggeni-figures must give up their personal struggles and either have a glass of Baygon and a good lie down, or return to the real world, regardless of how bleak such a prospect may seem. Yes, Tommy, this means you.
Marshall Clark (Marshall.Clark@utas.edu.au) teaches Indonesian at the University of Tasmania, performs the odd GST-free wayang kulit puppet show, and is completing a PhD on modern Indonesian literature at ANU.
Inside Indonesia 66: April-June 2001
More than six decades after being inspired as an undergraduate in Sydney, Ron Witton retraces his Indonesian language teacher's journey back to Suriname