1 - Celebrating Identity Politics: Cosmetic and Political Gimmickry

1Business is steady enough to support the mostly female vendors in the traditional markets of Karanganyar, tucked away in the dense neighbourhood of the town centre. The centre is dominated by the Regency Office, whose buildings remain whitewashed — as if the Independence Day celebrations of 17 August were approaching in a few days’ time. Within reigns Ibu Rina, bupati of Karanganyar, who once said in an interview of her veiling: “I never noticed any trend. When I decided to wear the head veil just before my candidacy in 2003, I noticed more and more female staff members putting on their head veils as well — no doubt following in my footsteps. It’s a mother-and-daughter thing, and that’s all that matters.” She pointed out the increase in female staff wearing the jilbab from 15 per cent at the beginning of her reign in 2003, to 90 per cent in 2011. An unprecedented increase indeed. “Her cultural attitude and curbed sexuality after wearing the jilbab has been materialized in an informal public policy in which Simbok is posited in the fashion store like a mannequin dictating a single choice,” explained Ahmad Badawi, who has carried out research for Gender and Children Data of Kabupaten Sragen 2006–2011. (Town folk used to call her Simbok, a more intimate Javanese term for ‘mother’). As a public figure, she has become a jilbab trendsetter and an icon of beauty, humility and modesty, successfully integrating the Javanese symbol of a caring and ardent Simbok into the management of a regency. She has climbed from a modest countryside elementary school teacher to the number one woman across Karanganyar. That is certainly an achievement. Over time this ‘all-giving’ goddess (Ratu Adil) has somehow evolved into an ‘allgifted’ mortal woman (Ibu Rina).

2To modern minds, drawing upon the authority of Allah might be unthinkable, but to Ibu Rina and many other Muslim women in power, that is perfectly sound. She conducts late-night Tahajud, texting all her nearly-300 staff every night to summon them to join in prayer in their own homes. Some reply while others sleep away, indifferent. She also recites the traditional Javanese spiritual pledge and cultivates the myth of Ratu Adil. Using Allah as political insurance should not be compared, some Islamists might argue, with the “low traditional Javanese queen”, but be it Allah or Ratu Adil, the motives behind the practices are similar. Ratu Adil is as effective a symbol of mysticism as a machine for amassing votes and power. The most tangible advantage of believing in Ratu Adil is that she is seen as the ultimate fount of wisdom in the eyes of Javanese leaders, who insist that she encapsulates spiritual leadership over and above all the numerous other symbols existing throughout the archipelago. She is ubiquitous in traditional prayers performed by local leaders and embodies the poise of unfettered power.

3Bupati Rina Iriani’s ajudan (assistants) opened the front door of her office in central Karanganyar for me. Across the hall, an open door offered a view of the backyard, and to the right and the left are four interconnecting rooms with three staff inside each room. We sat in her office, the green of the alun-alun, the wide grassy patch found in every regency building in Java, stretching into the horizon. Her assistants had permitted me to enter her office, to shield me from the gaze of staff loitering in the hallway. “The situation of women has not deteriorated since I took office. Domestic violence is even zero this year,” she proclaimed proudly. “I think it is because we have done everything in our power to ensure women are fairly treated so they are not and will not be sexually and domestically harassed and abused in the future.”

4Ibu Rina described herself as a university graduate with a doctorate from Universitas Sebelas Maret Surakarta (UNS). “I found dignity in realizing my dream of becoming a sophisticated, well-versed student.” Could I see how much Karanganyar had changed, she asked. Someone like her from the countryside could actually rise to the helm as a visionary leader. “Women everywhere want to know how I came to lead the regency. I explain that I was inspired by a passage in the memoirs of SDN Gaum. As a small girl, I never dreamed of becoming a mayor.” Ibu Rina claims to welcome whatever perils may come her way, placing her faith firmly in Allah. I don’t think it is an accident that it is a woman who has led Karanganyar in the last ten years. That a lowly-paid elementary school teacher has been elected is a reflection of the transformation of women’s empowerment opportunities over the last 30 years in Indonesia. But for every woman who has made it, there are thousands of others trapped in dead-end jobs in an underpaid workforce.

5“I was married by the age of 18 and my Indonesian Chinese husband was 25 years old. He is an entrepreneur.” Ibu Rina settles into her car, adjusts her headscarf and shows me the books she is reading. “I like reading spiritual books,” she says, in spite of her busy schedule. We approach the Regency Pendapa. Even before she became the occupant of the most luxurious house in town, the issue of women leaders was a grey area. Women leaders are not banned by any formal law and in some communities are even welcomed. But to have a woman occupy the top position is something the House of Representatives and the people of Karanganyar could not have imagined. It was an unprecedented move that earned the ire of the House of Representatives, which objected to Ibu Rina taking office even though she had won the election. The House was charged with sexism and gender bias and protests were held, with the feminism movement leading the charge. Indriyati Suparno, a vocal feminist from Solo (officially called Surakarta), denounced the House’s rejection of Ibu Rina: “Without a trace of irony, unsupported allegations against a female leader are levelled in tandem with the blatant use of labels such as ‘dangerous feminism’ and ‘incapability’ to advance the agenda.” Indriyati commented further, “You are either with us or against us”, and “if you are against us you must be sexist.” She continued, “The sexist arguments against woman leadership are intellectually lazy, morally repugnant, and destructive to gender justice and humanity. What is truly at stake for our nation is equality for all, not privilege of any particular gender.” Yayah Khisbiyah, another prominent Indonesian activist, feminist and psychologist based in Jakarta, warned that power, whether in male or female hands, corrupts; leaders, regardless of their gender, should deal with leadership as neither slapstick nor political gimmickry. She warned that woman leaders should not fall into the trap of too much silicon and cosmetics. Many cannot resist the spell, and political intrigues are traps for men and women alike.

6Ibu Rina is leaving her house to meet the people who have elected her. This may be one of the thankless tasks that plague politicians around the world, but here in Karanganyar, it is a cherished privilege. With no fanfare, she claims her right as the first elected woman mayor of Karanganyar. Leading, says Ibu Rina, is one of women’s rights; it is not the privilege of any sex. Raising her fists in a victory salute, she says, “It is a ticket for every woman. Write this down. I am the first woman elected.” And she is making history as the first female mayor. She has produced an array of regulations, among which the most important protect women and children from violence: Perda No. 20/2009: Perlindungan Perempuan dan Anak korban Kekerasan, dated 14 December 2009. Indriyati Suparno underlined this effort by saying that Ibu Rina is one of the female leaders that have inspired many in Central Java.

7Raised in Karanganyar and now the sole woman mayor in Central Java, Ibu Rina traced for me the history of the veil in her family. Her initially bareheaded grandmother started wearing the jilbab, followed by her mother, then herself. By the early 1990s the majority of Indonesian Muslim women were once again covering up their hair. Ibu Rina, like most well-heeled Muslims, was initially dismayed by this trend and set out to understand why. The story behind the veil’s resurgence is not straightforward, with factors such as Dutch colonialism, the rise of Islamism in the Middle East, the sclerotic domestic economy, the Israeli-Palestinian clash and Saudi Arabia’s coffers, all playing a role. It is not simply a bandanna version of the all-encompassing, intimidating Afghan burqa that signals brainwashed submissiveness or, at the very least, a lack of choice. Yet the veil often reflects values and attitudes that have little to do with piety, for example, when it is donned as an expression of solidarity with Palestine.

8When I questioned her on why she wore the jilbab, she described how a bunch of gawky men used to harass her each day on her way to teach at an elementary school. The feisty petite 49-year-old with gently curved lips and almond-shaped eyes, who was wearing on that morning a cream-coloured head veil and makeup rather too thick for official standards, exclaimed, “I have no idea why they harassed me. Some said I was a pretty teacher with a long, thick, beautiful black hair. I can dance. I am an avid classic Javanese dancer. Saya penari (I am a dancer).” Ibu Rina is indeed a fervent classical Javanese dancer. She grins, “Anyway, men should watch out for me — I am a respectable teacher!” She thus delivered her first reason for wearing the veil — as protection against sexual harassment.

9This was also the experience of another woman who worked at a textile factory. “I feel secure with this jilbab, especially when I have to work the night shift,” she told me. For Indonesian Muslim women, the days following Soeharto’s fall were not harrowing, in spite of the government ban of the jilbab. Schoolgirls wearing headscarves were no longer attacked or questioned by their teachers, and mosques across the country blared the adzan, the Muslim summons to prayer, in triumphant celebration of the end of Orde Baru. It was clear that Indonesian Muslims — from the cocktail-swilling secular Muslims to the mosque-attending ones — had been living with apprehension. Meanwhile, the cohort of radicals, extremists and jihadists grew, a fact that was highlighted after the 9/11 and Bali bombings.

10The jilbab for Muslim women leaders is thus a form of political insurance as well as assurance of spiritual obedience from their loyal voters. The large number of Ibu Rina’s ‘daughters’ (municipal staff) who followed in her footsteps had a multiplier effect. In an attempt to revive flagging interest in spiritual matters among women when she took office in 2003, it was decided that female staff had to appear more Islamic and more ‘womanly’, giving rise to an informal convention on wearing the jilbab for Muslim female staff.

11Currently there is no formal ratification of the dress code. That has not, however, dampened the powerful informal law — let us call it public morality — that has forced female staff to cover their hair. Now one even sees Muslim male staff wearing the baju gamis and baju koko (popular Indonesian Muslim outfits for men) every Friday because ‘Mother’ has been conducting Jumling (Jumat Keliling, Friday visitations) in the last two years, dropping by at different mosques for Friday sermons. The pressure is certainly mounting, and given that their professional performance is being judged by their appearance as Muslim women and men, tension has escalated among the staff. The jilbab has undoubtedly proven Ibu Rina’s sway as a trendsetter who is emulated by every female staff in her personal and professional lifestyle. No wonder Karanganyar has its own jilbab brand, jilbab Ibu Rina.

12According to male officials, the Muslim dress code allows female staff to appear more feminine, professional and ‘morally-defined’. “We are not trying to discriminate against women to promote morality,” clarififed a staff, “we just want them to look feminine and morally responsible, and to be professionally competent.” To think that this new form of the old kerudung is becoming the sole reference of moral order at a time of escalating crises caused by corruption! The jilbab is, he concluded, the best definition of Muslim women. It is amazing that noone has stopped to ask, “Wait a minute, what are we doing here?”, and that the rule has not been roundly criticized for what is it — blatantly sexist, with no bearing on the professional performance of civil servants. Moral pressure is also exerted through the looks cast on those still unveiled. There is increasing interest in wearing the jilbab, Ibu Rina conceded, adding that some women are upping the stakes by wearing oversized long pants and baggy clothes. But hardly anyone notices, she shrugs. “I want to build them up to where they should be. They perform their official tasks quite well already, I just want them to look nicer and morally responsible, and this has more marketing value for us civil servants. I am surprised I received so much approval!”

13When a person has his/her apparel dictated to on the basis of his/her sex, it should be offensive, but for those who have been dictated to, they do not perceive it as harassment. Indeed some have embraced the dress code. “We need to be able to differentiate between Muslim and non-Muslim female staff to bring attention to the issue,” a Muslim head-veiled staff tried to convince me during an interview. “The jilbab made me feel peaceful and self-confident earlier in my career,” Ibu Rina said. “I think I look prettier wearing it than not.” Many female staff members also said that while they supported measures to popularize jilbab, like the offering of money, they did not consider it as an affront to be told to wear the jilbab.

14The portrait of post-Soeharto Indonesia as viewed through the evolution of the veil is strikingly hopeful, full of individuals, trends and stories that show attempts to narrow the prevalent gender gap in this country. There exist feminist translations of the Quran that make a sound case against domestic violence and important conventions where Muslim authorities offer critics a platform to lambast their faith. Indonesian Muslim women activists are optimistic that the new openness will be transformative. Even if Muslim authorities and elders are merely putting up a façade of liberality to ward off political attacks, the climate is shaping a young generation of Muslims who demand a more progressive system. Though the Islamists cohort may advocate the veil as the rightful submission of women to patriarchy, many have asserted on the contrary that the veil’s resurgence dovetails with a feminist spirit of activism and justice. The political, cultural and economic status for women has changed dramatically. Ibu Rina is not trying to sugarcoat something that will always reek of patriarchy to some, and you can count on the veil to stir up passionate debates on topics such as polygamy, domestic violence, sexual harassment and gender injustice.

15Ibu Rina’s jilbab has served her well in her brand of identity politics, one that is defined by gender, religion and ethnicity. It is politically driven and laden with self-interest. A strong belief in self is a characteristic of her image. There is even a touch of mystery, as leadership by a woman has been likened to the opening of Pandora’s box, a woman’s defiance of a divine command that will bring forth great calamity. Women leaders are a minority in modern politics (Jurnal Perempuan, 2006; Komnas Perempuan, 2006). For a minority leadership to make a dent in political history, the minority group must be consistent, flexible and appealing to the majority. Jilbab as identity politics has indeed been sanctioning the disenfranchised to form a dissident movement against authoritarian systemic pressure. It should not be an instrument of oppression.

2 - Negotiating Women’s Multiple Burdens

16Eighteen years have passed since I enrolled at Universitas Muhammadiyah Surakarta (UMS) in Solo, Central Java. I also taught there after graduating in 1997, before pursuing my studies abroad. When I finally returned from my doctoral studies at Universitaet Muenster Germany in 2008, I found that many things had changed since my last stay in 2002, before I left for my Masters degree at Monash University, but the essence of the place has remained — in the culture, the atmosphere and most of all, the Muslim women studying in the biggest private university in Central Java. Solo, officially known as Surakarta, shares the legacy of Java’s last surviving empire, the Mataram Sultanate, with its neighbour Yogyakarta. Each city has its own palace (kraton) and a line of royals who are revered by their subjects to this day.

17Like other Islamic universities in Yogyakarta, the universities in Solo are densely populated by female students wearing the jilbab, as if the influence of the Javanese past has not made itself felt. Female students are informally compelled to wear the jilbab in Islamic-labelled universities, whether NU, Muhammadiyah or state-owned. The deeply ingrained jilbab tradition does not, however, stop the city from looking forward. The mayor of Solo, Joko Widodo, has been widely praised for his progressive policies. He has rebranded the city with the slogan “The Spirit of Java” and is said to have implemented many positive changes on the ground to make it a better city for residents and tourists alike.

18People often start their day with a stroll down Jalan Slamet Riyadi, the city’s main business thoroughfare. There, surprisingly large flocks of Muslim students wearing the jilbab travel by bicycle or on foot, especially on Sundays when cars are banned from sunrise until 9 am. The wide main road is shaded by large banyan trees. Street vendors selling jamu, traditional herbal tonics, and serabi, a type of sweet coconut pancake, line the street, where the bareheaded and the jilbab-wearers mingle seamlessly. Outside the universities, there is no discrimination whatsoever, but this ends at the doorsteps of the university, for unveiled female students who dare to defy the informal iron law are not allowed in class. The car-free day introduced in Solo actually revealed subversive female defiance against the obligatory wearing of the veil in Islamic institutions. Many students put off donning the veil until they enter the institutions. This highlights the surprising degree of rebellion simmering in Muslim subculture. Some 13 years after the fall of the New Order regime, a group of Muslim female students is turning the spotlight on a surprising array of subversive and critical behaviour. Given the strict surveillance of Islamic universities across Indonesia, the very existence of this defiance is a taboo subject in these institutions. This study is part of the investigation, seeking out perceptions that deviate from the official ideological canon.

19Muslim female graduates want to have it all: a high-flying career and a successful marriage. At 56, Maryam is a professor of Indonesian literature in UMS, working over 48 hours a week and earning more than Rp 200,000,000 (USD 20,000) a year. Maryam, like many other successful Muslim women, is excelling in a world that many thought was governed by rules set and enforced by men. For the first time in the history of Muslim women in Muhammadiyah Central Java, these 'elite women' can succeed in any career they want. A new generation of bright, rich, professional Muslim women seem to have broken through the glass ceiling and have nothing to fear from the men around them. They will be just as successful. The jilbab is the very source of the discipline required to achieve victory. It is the hub that connects all resources and avenues to achievement. The veil is no longer considered as a hindrance to any career. Equality for all translates to indifference to one’s dressing, whether modern and bareheaded, or veiled. No wonder the jilbab has catapulted many so-called ‘discreet women’ into powerful positions at universities, NGOs, CSOs, government bodies, parliament, and age-old Islamic organizations such as NU and Muhammadiyah. The jilbab provides security. Women wearing it are spared the ignorance, stupidity, unfairness and injustice that may befall others.

20Women were not obliged to veil themselves during the 1980s. Those who did, for example, Vera Kartika Giantari, Director of SPEK-HAM, the only women NGO operating in Solo, were known as the head-veiled women activists. Many of them continued wearing the head veil while others opted to take it off. Previously, during the Soeharto regime, freedom was like a fairy tale; now it is within everyone’s reach. These veiled women are feminist Muslims. Many of them even work to support equality rights for LGBT (Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender) movements such as TALITAKUM, the sole NGO in Solo working for sexual minorities, and Our Voice, a national NGO. Groups fighting for gender justice and rights for sexual minorities have flourished and the fervent feminist groups remain strong. These groups have earned plaudits for their fight for equality. And since women hold up half the sky, vilifying women means losing votes, so even political parties have joined in their cause. But challenges lie ahead of them, for example, the birth of FPI, MMI and other ultra-conservative Muslim groups.

21Javanese Muslim feminists have been embroiled in fiery controversies. For myriad reasons, austere jilbab-wearering feminists are often ambushed with violent verbal attacks. Radicals refer to them as ‘gangrene’ to Islam, as representing an ambivalent version of Islam highly influenced by the West. They argue that the meteoric rise of this new generation of feminists who want high-powered, well-paid jobs has dire consequences for Muslim society. They claim that it has diverted the most talented away from the caring professions such as childcare; stopped them from volunteering for Islamic political parties, thus potentially putting an end to what they call 'Muslim female altruism'; turned many women off having more children; and effectively killed off Muslimah. What is true is that it signals the death of the sisterhood (Ukhuwah-Ikhwah), whereby women of all classes share the same major life experiences to a far greater degree than men. In the past, women of all classes were bonded by lives centred on explicitly female concerns. Now it makes little sense to talk about one blanket experience for women. The statistics clearly show that among young, educated, full-time professionals, being a woman is no longer a drag on earnings or progress.

22This study argues that the most educated Muslim women will now earn as much as men over a lifetime; even with children, the gap in earnings will still be small. The desire for success is a major incentive to women who wear the head veil. Family — the care of the old and sick, and the raising of the next generation with a loving husband — remains paramount to them. The repercussions for the future are enormous. The growth of the ‘because-I-am-worth-it’ generation has led to the blossoming of female altruism, where women see as normal and obligatory the caregiving aspects of their lives. “If you give 100 per cent to the job — if you behave like a man — the fact that you are a woman will not be a hindrance,” said Maryam. She did not mean that the workplace revolution had been a mistake and admitted she had gained from it herself. “I am not saying we should be driven back into the home and not be allowed to work. I am not suggesting we reintroduce the marriage bar (which required female teachers and civil servants to stay single or resign in favour of male workers). I am just saying there have been consequences. That there is a double burden.” Maryam's views will ignite fierce debate. It is a topic that is discussed at breakfast and dinner tables, in restaurants and in pengajian (religious congregations) across the country. Many Muslim women face the challenge of how to strike a balance between pursuing their careers and motherhood. Maryam's arguments have met with both empathy and vehement disagreement.

23Feminists argue that the ‘sisterhood’ is very much alive and that women of all classes still share the same major life experiences. Muslim women are far from a homogeneous group, but one thing they have in common is the double burden they bear as career woman and family caregiver. Radicals propose polygamous marriage, which few Muslim women really support. Teh Ninih’s abandoning of her intent to file for divorce from Aa Gym was a case in point. Many considered Teh Ninih as the perfect example of a discreet and obedient wife and talk shows were abuzz with how it was not Teh Ninih’s failure but Aa Gym’s. In one interview, the martyred wife was shown hospitalized and pondering her future while her husband was getting married in Malaysia without first asking her permission.

24Muslim feminists from various backgrounds argue that the solution is to carve out a balance between men and women, and to put a value on unpaid work such as looking after the children. Women, they explain, do not really have a choice but to take on the burden of childcare because the discrepancy in pay between men and women means that it is often more economical for the woman to stop working. This is compounded by the fact that part-time work is often not available in the professions chosen by women. Others argue that there is still a glass ceiling blocking the path of young Muslim female professionals.

25Feminists sometimes completely miss the point on several key issues. These days, the debate concerns not just women but also fathers, who increasingly desire to be more involved at home. Muslim women enjoy a thin veneer of equality, but that veneer often cracks once they take on a caring role. Many Muslim women with a large family and who come from the lower socioeconomic classes have difficulties finding flexible work and often end up with poor pay and reduced promotion prospects. More leave for new fathers could address the imbalance. Involvement in childcare has increased among modern Muslim men who believe that fathers play a central role in the caring of children.

26The present system adopted in many Indonesian Muslim families is deeply unfair for women, according to prominent Indonesian Muslim feminist Musdah Mulia. “We will not close the pay gap until men take time out to look after children. Then employers will not think they cannot employ a woman in her late twenties or early thirties because they cannot afford maternity leave. As a society we have not caught up yet with the consequences of women in the labour market. Women manage by holding off one thing or another; they sacrifice children or they sacrifice their career.” It is a dilemma that is already haunting many Muslim women. Many women rationalize thus: “I want to have a child eventually, but I will postpone the decision until the hours become more manageable as I advance in my career.” A pragmatic choice made under economic pressure and the pressures of this authoritarian patriarchal society! There is a perception shared by women and men alike that Muslim women can be professionals with a career or good women with families. They actually can have both, and the jilbab is the bridge between the past, present and future.

3 - Servility and Obedience: The Ugly Side of Polygamy

27True love is ageless, declared 46-year-old Pujiono Cahyo Widianto, popularly known as Syeikh Puji, the head of Islamic boarding school, Pondok Pesantren-Ponpes Miftahul Jannah in Bedono, Jambu and Semarang (Central Java). He had just informally married a student of his, Lutfiana Ulfa, a servile petite 14-year-old student with strawberry-shaped eyes and creamy skin, in August 2008. When he announced his wedding, a media storm broke out. From Syeikh Puji to Diani Budiarto, the 53-year-old mayor of Bogor, rumoured to have romanced and married a 19-year-old cafe waitress Siti Indriyan, formerly becoming her legal guardian because she was too young to marry him and providing the financial support for her to continue her studies, relationships between older men and younger girls, even if legitimatized by polygamy laws, never fail to make us squirm. Both these men are very wealthy, one being mayor and the other, the owner of PT Sinar Lendoh Terang, a handicrafts exporter with a monthly turnover of millions of rupiah. Protested Syeikh Puji, “I am not just doing what I like. It is based on religion. It is in accordance with the prophet’s teaching. You can marry a 7-year-old if you like, but you cannot have sexual intercourse until she starts menstruating.”

28This squeamishness is understandable: Syeikh Puji and Diani are old enough to be the girls’father, if not their grandfather. In Indonesia, a person cannot legally consent to sex until the age of 17, and individuals under 18 years of age must obtain the permission of parents in order to marry, with the legal marriage age being set at 18. Both girls have already entered puberty. Diani, massively supported by PKS, believed his controversial marriage had a legitimate basis in Islam since the Prophet Muhammad married Aisyah when she was seven. Diani’s and Syeikh Puji’s sexual dalliances with powerless minors illustrates the sordidness of powerful wealthy men who run after eroticized and hyper-sexualized youth.

29Men, of course, have paired up with younger — often much younger — women since time immemorial. This may even make biological sense. What is different in the case of these men is how they did not shy from entering publicly into relationships with the teenagers, with the apparent approval of their brides’ parents. Lutfiana’s father has said that he would not have given up his daughter to anyone else, while her mother was quoted as saying, “We are totally supportive of this marriage. Syeikh Puji is a wonderful man and we love him.”

30While an age disparity like the 34 years between Diani Budiarto and Siti Indriyani, and the 32 years between Syeikh Puji and Lutfiana Ulfa, are by no means the norm, the recent openness about relationships involving huge age gaps in polygamous households, including a willingness to parade the nuptials in the press, suggest that they may be becoming less stigmatized among radicals who have not expressed the least bit of disapproval. Yet it is highly criticized on TV and hotly debated at warung (the equivalent of coffeeshops) and on Facebook and Twitter.

31Entering into a relationship with an older man before turning 18 — or even 20 — is servility. Hordes of girls, mindwashed in gender-biased pengajian, voluntarily submit to polygamy. “When you start stretching decades and you are talking about young girls, under 19 or so, it is always problematic,” said Ahmad Badawi, Director of YLSKAR (Yayasan Lingkar Studi Kesetaraan Aksi dan Refleksi), an NGO protecting girls and women from violence. He was deeply disturbed by the fact that Syeikh Puji’s marriage had taken place only a few kilometers from his office in Salatiga and added, “It is probably not healthy nor the most ‘normal’ relationship. Based on 13 years of advocacy, I don’t think you are that mature at 17. You are still a kid.” He feels that before the age of 19 or 20, teenage girls are still in the process of developing their maturity and understanding of social and cultural reality. Or, at the very least, shaping their individuality and learning to exert their own agency. Before they reach this critical age, teens’ ability to consider and use judgment is still developing; furthermore they are easily swayed by peer pressure. Although adolescents know right from wrong and are able to understand consequences, he cautioned that “their ability to carefully consider these matters is somewhat limited relative to adults”. When teenage girls marry an older man, the consequence is servility and absolute obedience.

32Experts mostly agree that in contemporary Indonesian society, the potential harm to a young woman who marries an older man depends on her age and the age gap with her husband. SPEK HAM cautioned that there could be long-term emotional repercussions for teenaged girls who have sex with older men. Those whose partners are two or three decades older had higher levels of subsequent depression and lower levels of self-esteem. “If they are with a male who has more power and status, because he is older, this might make it harder for young women to say, ‘No I don’t want to have sex’,” Nong Mahmada, a leading Muslim feminist warned. These young women may also have to deal with physical problems resulting from these sexual relationships. “Even if the girl would prefer to use some type of contraceptive, she is less likely to do so if the guy has more power in the relationship.” She objected to the fact that Diani, the mayor, had exploited state incentives and apparatus to hold his polygamous marriage, which in turn raises questions of corruption and violation of public trust.

33A female student from a state-owned Islamic university who had an affair with a 39-year-old lecturer disclosed that, to this day, she has no regrets. “I thought it was so romantic and glamorous and adventurous,” she said. “I was not interested in having any power. I was interested in the other person being in control of everything, being the smarter one, the stronger one. I was interested in letting him drive.” The 21-year-old who wears a head veil wherever she goes claimed that she never felt that any of the men she dated were manipulating her and that sex was never the focus. She argued that these May-December relationships are too harshly criticized. For her, they were positive experiences — she even saw the potential for marriage with some of the men. Many Muslim women, though, frown upon such relationships, considering them problematic and scandalous. Only the teenagers involved do not believe they are being exploited. Girls such as Lutfiana Ulfa or Siti Indriyani will never report of being victimized. Among the perceived benefits of their relationships are admiration from their peers for their hyper-sexualized youth and their husbands’ material assets. They stress the emotional advantages, saying that their older husbands are more considerate of their feelings and make them feel special. They believe their husbands would be more faithful than boys of their own age because older men have finished sowing their oats. “They really give adult men far too much credit,” Muslim feminists fume. “The irony is they find out after that these men were sowing their wild oats with them.” With hindsight, older women interviewed about the relationships they had as teens felt quite differently. “They had very little good things to say when they were older; many were angry, really angry,” pointed out Soe Tjen Marching, a prominent feminist from Surabaya. “They were pretty much disgusted.” Feminists argue that needy girls and exploitative men are not the only factors driving these relationships. From music, videos, TV, ads, to Facebook and Twitter, the stereotype of a happy princess sits within a wider cultural context that absolutely eroticizes and hyper-sexualizes teen girls. As much as we are appalled by and concerned with these relationships, there are factors in our culture that make this happen.

4 - Plastic Surgery and Hysteria

34Gimmickry in politics is the manipulation of appearances. It is not relevant to the functioning of the system and plays on novelty. Such is the role of the jilbab for women politicians, serving as a symbol of piety and religiosity, although it sometimes also carries negative connotations as the symbol of absolute obedience and dependence. Like the kebaya of old worn by ibu-ibu (politicians’ wives), the jilbab is now an indispensable tool in the marketing of politics and ever sleeker versions — brightly-hued or easy-to-wear ones — have emerged to woo and distract voters.

35The jilbab attempts to evolve and transform itself under the aegis of adat ketimuran (Eastern customs). In this process of autoplasticity, the jilbab alters and is altered, dwelling in the interstices, celebrating both Arabic and Indonesian fashion codes.

36The jilbab works like a spell on female voters, offering a spiritual answer in a country where half of the citizens live under the threshold of poverty. Thus the jilbab modifies itself in response to the internal environment (autoplastic adaptation), as well as strives to alter the situation in reaction to the external environment (alloplastic adaptation). It is as if adat ketimuran, archaic tradition undergoes ‘plastic surgery’ on the demand of nilai keislaman (Islamic values), through which emerges a unique and distinctive brand of ‘Jilbab Indonesia’. The dilemma persists: to what extent should women be encouraged to adapt to a given interpretation of the Holy Quran and a ‘correct’ dress code? How much to change? How are women supposed to react to fashion trends flooding the media? Should women be encouraged to abandon traditional beliefs to fit in a society that values jilbab-wearers more than bareheaded women? This is the sort of negotiation embedded in an unending struggle between changing the other and effecting internal change, autoplastic and alloplastic.

37A hybrid jilbab is invented and we witness a vicious circle of harsh coercion and virtuous obedience, voluntary versus self-willed, all of which is driven by a relentless high-tech rhythm. Teenaged girls cannot live without Facebook, nor can jilbab-wearers, and photo after photo of the jilbab are uploaded and displayed. The precepts for the modern woman of the twenty-first century are being defined via social media!

38Not bending to the informal iron law brings humiliation and defamation. The present veiling of more and more skin represents the slow but sure motion of restraining and curtailing the discourse of the body. The female form, an object of artistry and symbol of fertility, has been reduced to porn. There have been many accounts by female students of being expelled from class for allegedly flouting Islamic law by dressing ‘improperly’. Their female classmates sneer and mock while teachers exercise cruel impunity. Such tales of humiliation are so commonplace that every girl has an incident to relate. There are yet uglier stories of groups of students being paraded in front of the class and humiliated as un-Islamic, whore-like and immoral. That is hardly surprising. In a conservative society where a woman's honour is often tied to her virtue, as indicated by the jilbab, the mere suggestion of compromised chastity is enough to render a girl an outcast. Barred from tightly controlled institutions, these humiliated girls have been forced to rely on telephone calls, tweets, Facebook posts, YouTube videos and stray secondhand testimony to piece together their experiences.

39This study sought to conduct face-to-face interviews and to hear firsthand testimony. The women of jilbab form a closed society raised on absolute spirituality and unconcerned with the mundane and mortal body, a society where the secret Shariah police is on every street corner and where paranoia and suspicion reign. It is akin to a mother making up her daughters, a benevolent female imposing rules on her minors: “We are to be scanned, displayed, and checked one by one, to make sure we are wearing baggy jeans that hide our curves, baggy shirts to hide our rounded breasts, and proper head veils that cover our hair. We do not want to cause trouble so we dress properly.” Overcoming the girls’ fears, suspicions and feelings of shame is perhaps the bigger obstacle. I hunted down the muted women but also those living in a totally different world — women wearing the head veil in public institutions and removing it outside.

40I spent a chilly night with thousands of men, women and children huddled together in the famous Solo Batik Carnival (SBC) where I enjoyed the beauty of traditional, skin-displaying costumes as well as performances of traditional dance and theatre by Solo International Performance Arts (SIPA). It was a splendid evening free from the menace of radical groups that have implanted themselves in Solo, a city that has become notorious for the arrests and deaths of Noordin Top and other terror suspects. In these traditional yet modernized performances, delicate creamy skin was on display, and the human body, unclothed and unmasked, was regarded as holy and spiritual.

41Women in Indonesia are increasingly choosing motherhood over work. Indonesia lags far behind in the percentage of women in powerful positions. Despite a battery of government measures — some introduced in the last ten years — and ever more passionate debate about gender roles, only less than 13 per cent of Indonesian women occupy parliamentary and executive positions, with the number in judicial and judicative chairs decreasing even more steeply. All the top companies are run by men of Tionghoa ethnicity. A single woman in Indonesia faces much difficulty in obtaining legal official documents for her children, an injustice that NGOs are trying to right by pushing for policy granting such documents to single mothers.

42Low-income women are among the most impoverished and subdued group whether economically or politically. As they form the core of the informal economy, working as domestic workers or running small businesses in the service industry, they are particularly vulnerable to unjust practices. Between 1997 and 1998, the percentage of those living in poverty doubled from 11 to 22 per cent, Badan Pusat Statistik reported. These women are almost invisible. Chronic poverty is triggered by structural paucity, gender inequalities in the distribution of income, control over property and natural resources and access to credit schemes, as well as biases in the political and economic system and the labour market.

43In addition to these challenges, women have to grapple with the issue of the jilbab at work. The wearing of the jilbab is often dictated and enforced by institutions and societal pressure. When a woman has to put on the jilbab in order to secure a job in an Islamic institution, it is as if her worth depends solely on a piece of cloth; for veiled women, to remove their jilbab for the sake of a job constitutes harassment or marginalization. Both types of enforcement are actually a soft form of policing induced by politics, which expediently categorizes the population into the ummah and the non-ummah. Why should women have to sacrifice themselves? Does the decision to wear the jilbab not belong to a woman herself? The Ministry of Women’s Empowerment seeks to develop a multipronged approach to promoting women’s development, yet the discourse on women’s dressing in the office remains stuck in the domain of ‘Eastern law’ for which skin is taboo. Laws may help change mentalities, but effective law enforcement is a different story. Cultural norms and patriarchal expectations actually have more sway and reach than formal ones.

44The Healing Circle, a Muslim feminist group, advocates monogamy, believing that any discourse on marriage and sexuality is dishonest without equality and monogamy. Monogamy also protects women against sexual diseases and in paternity matters, and is better for their emotional well-being. Head-veiled women also speak out loud against polygamy while still affirming Islamic values in their lives. It is not uncommon to find veiled students who religiously perform salat while carrying on an adulterous relationship at the same time. The jilbab is not a guarantee of honesty before Allah. The stereotype of the jilbab-wearer as an obedient wife is totally erroneous but is so widespread that it gives ammunition to religious and cultural forces. Religious authorities call for a more flexible attitude within polygamous marriage — with the caveat that the first wife’s permission must be obtained, a permission that is in many cases forged. The jilbab autoplastically alters the wife to be cheated who then has to return piously to Allah or else be outcast as an atheist! The law destroys more women that it saves. What it saves is the male libido but not gender equality. The jilbab has been a site of tension, struggle, interpretation, theorization and identity politics that women would like to get a word in. Mushrooming polygamy is overturning the stable nuclear family. The dutiful wife wearing her refined jilbab sitting next to her husband forms the very picture of a happy family, but what lies beneath? Never-ending disputes, jealousy, pressure and tension!