Gender Diversity in Indonesia

“Gender Diversity in Indonesia is a landmark work that combines careful ethnographic
research with cutting-edge gender theory . . . a profound contribution to a range of disciplines,
including anthropology, feminist theory, queer theory, and Southeast Asian Studies.”
Professor Tom Boellstorff, University of California, Irvine, USA
“. . . a wonderfully rich account that reveals the everyday lives of variously gendered individuals, as well as their subjectivities and integration into and tensions with the larger society,
Islam and the nation-state. The material is original and without rival.”
Associate Professor Evelyn Blackwood, Purdue University, USA
“. . . an important contribution to sexuality/gender studies cross-culturally as well as more particularly to Southeast Asian studies, filling a gap in the limited literature on gender in
Indonesia.”
Associate Professor Peter Jackson, Australian National University
“. . . an original, critical contribution to both gender studies and Indonesian studies.”
Professor Saskia Wieringa, University of Amsterdam, the Netherlands
“Indonesia’s linguistic, ethnic and religious diversity, of which Indonesians are always proud,
is here given another dimension: gender. Gender Diversity in Indonesia is a joy to read.”
Dr Dédé Oetomo, GAYa NUSANTARA Foundation, Indonesia

Indonesia provides particularly interesting examples of gender diversity. Same-sex relations, transvestism and cross-gender behaviour have long been noted among a wide range of
Indonesian peoples. This book explores the nature of gender diversity in Indonesia, and with
the world’s largest Muslim population, it examines Islam in this context. Based on extensive
ethnographic research, it discusses in particular calalai – female-born individuals who identify as neither woman nor man; calabai – male-born individuals who also identify as neither
man nor woman; and bissu – an order of shamans who embody female and male elements.
The book examines the lives and roles of these variously gendered subjectivities in everyday
life, including in low-status and high-status rituals such as wedding ceremonies, fashion
parades, cultural festivals, Islamic recitations and shamanistic rituals. The book analyses the
place of such subjectives in relation to theories of gender, gender diversity and sexuality.
Sharyn Graham Davies is Associate Professor in the School of Languages and Social
Sciences at Auckland University of Technology, New Zealand. She has spent a number of
years living in Indonesia and has written extensively on gender and sexuality, including most
recently Challenging Gender Norms: Five Genders among Bugis in Indonesia, Thomson
Wadsworth, 2007.

Asian studies association of Australia
Women in Asia Series
Editor: Louise Edwards
(University of Technology Sydney)

Editorial Board:
Susan Blackburn (Monash University)
Vera Mackie (Melbourne University)
Anne McLaren (Melbourne University)
Mina Roces (University of New South Wales)
Andrea Whittaker (Melbourne University)

Mukkuvar Women
Gender, hegemony and capitalist
transformation in a South Indian fishing community
Kalpana Ram
A World of Difference
Islam and gender hierarchy in Turkey
Julie Marcus
Purity and Communal Boundaries
Women and social change in a
Bangladeshi village
Santi Rozario
Madonnas and Martyrs
Militarism and violence in the
Philippines
Anne-Marie Hilsdon
Masters and Managers
A study of gender relations in urban
Java
Norma Sullivan
Matriliny and Modernity
Sexual politics and social change in
rural Malaysia
Maila Stivens

Intimate Knowledge
Women and their health in North-East
Thailand
Andrea Whittaker
Women in Asia
Tradition, modernity and
globalisation
Louise Edwards and Mina Roces
(eds)
Violence against Women in Asian
Societies
Gender inequality and technologies of
violence
Lenore Manderson and Linda Rae
Bennett (eds)
Women’s Employment in Japan
The experience of part-time workers
Kaye Broadbent
Chinese Women Living and
Working
Anne McLaren (ed)
Abortion, Sin and the State in
Thailand
Andrea Whittaker

Sexual Violence and the Law in
Japan
Catherine Burns

Gender, Islam, and Democracy in
Indonesia
Kathryn Robinson

Women, Islam and Modernity
Single women, sexuality and
reproductive health in contemporary
Indonesia
Linda Rae Bennett

Young Women in Japan
Transitions to adulthood
Kaori Okano

The Women’s Movement in
Post-Colonial Indonesia
Elizabeth Martyn
Women and Work in Indonesia
Michele Ford and Lyn Parker (eds)

Sex, Love and Feminism in the Asia
Pacific
A cross-cultural study of young
people’s attitudes
Chilla Bulbeck

Women and Union Activism in Asia
Kaye Broadbent and Michele Ford (eds)

Gender, State and Social
Power in Contemporary
Indonesia
Divorce and marriage law
Kate O’Shaughnessy

Gender, Household, and State in
Post-Revolutionary Vietnam
Jayne Werner

Feminist Movements in
Contemporary Japan
Laura Dales

Gender, Nation and State in Modern
Japan
Vera Mackie, Ulrike Woehr and
Andrea Germer (eds)

Women, Islam and Everyday Life
Renegotiating polygamy in
Indonesia
Nina Nurmila

Cambodian Women
Childbirth and maternity in rural
Southeast Asia
Elizabeth Hoban

Gender Diversity in Indonesia
Sexuality, Islam and queer selves
Sharyn Graham Davies

Gender Diversity in
Indonesia
Sexuality, Islam and queer selves

Sharyn Graham Davies

First published 2010
by Routledge
2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon, OX14 4RN
Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada
by Routledge
270 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016
Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business
This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2010.
To purchase your own copy of this or any of Taylor & Francis or Routledge’s
collection of thousands of eBooks please go to www.eBookstore.tandf.co.uk.
© 2010 Sharyn Graham Davies
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or
reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic,
mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter
invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any
information storage or retrieval system, without permission in
writing from the publishers.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available
from the British Library
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data
Davies, Sharyn Graham.
Gender diversity in Indonesia / Sharyn Graham Davies.
p. cm. – (Asian Studies Association of Australia Women in Asia series)
Includes bibliographical references and index.
1. Transgenderism – Indonesia. 2. Gender identity – Indonesia.
3. Sexual minorities – Indonesia. I. Title.
HQ77.95.I5D38 2010
306.7609598 – dc22
2009029111
ISBN 0-203-86095-0 Master e-book ISBN

ISBN10: 0-415-37569-X (hbk)
ISBN10: 0-203-86095-0 (ebk)
ISBN13: 978-0-415-37569-6 (hbk)
ISBN13: 978-0-203-86095-3 (ebk)

For Tom, Alfie and ana’ kutampu, with love.

Contents

List of figures
Series editor’s foreword
Preface
Acknowledgments

x
xi
xii
xvi

1

Framing place and process

1

2

Contextualizing gender

16

3

Queer(y)ing transgender

39

4

Gendering the present past

58

5

Gendering life

87

6

Calalai subject positions

119

7

Calabai subject positions

138

8

Bissu subject positions

174

9

Conclusion

207

Glossary
Notes
Bibliography
Index

214
217
219
249

Figures

1.1 Map of Indonesia: The island of Sulawesi, near the centre of the
map, is to the right of Borneo and the north of Bali.
1.2 Map of Sulawesi: The city of Makassar is the capital of South
Sulawesi.
1.3 Bissu performing ma’giri’ to prove possession by a powerful
spirit.
1.4 Bissu having just performed a ritual blessing.
7.1 Calabai attending the wedding celebrations of a Bugis couple.
7.2 Winner of an AusAID-sponsored transgender fashion parade
in South Sulawesi accepts hir trophy.
7.3 School girls perform at a cultural festival.
7.4 Calabai indo’ botting (wedding mothers) form a guard of
honour at a Bugis wedding.
7.5 Calabai indo’ botting oversee a Bugis wedding.
8.1 A kris sword used for performing ma’giri’.
8.2 Bissu consult with family members on the best way to conduct
a Bugis wedding.
8.3 An altar used by bissu for ritual blessings.
8.4 Bissu performing the self-stabbing ma’giri’ ritual to prove possession.
8.5 Bissu performing the self-stabbing ma’giri’ ritual to prove possession.
8.6 Bissu performing the self-stabbing ma’giri’ ritual to prove possession.
8.7 A bissu rests after having performed ma’giri.

3
5
11
12
147
150
151
155
156
175
184
188
193
194
195
196

Series editor’s foreword

The contributions of women to the social, political and economic transformations
occurring in the Asian region are legion. Women have served as leaders of nations,
communities, workplaces, activist groups and families. Asian women have joined
with others to participate in fomenting change at micro and macro levels. They
have been both agents and targets of national and international interventions in
social policy. In the performance of these myriad roles women have forged new and
modern gendered identities that are recognisably global and local. Their experiences are rich, diverse and instructive. The books in this series testify to the central
role women play in creating the new Asia and re-creating Asian womanhood.
Moreover, these books reveal the resilience and inventiveness of women around
the Asian region in the face of entrenched and evolving patriarchal social norms.
Scholars publishing in this series demonstrate a commitment to promoting the
productive conversation between Women’s Studies and Asian Studies. The need to
understand the diversity of experiences of femininity and womanhood around the
world increases inexorably as globalisation proceeds apace. Lessons from the
experiences of Asian women present us with fresh opportunities for building new
possibilities for women’s progress the world over.
The Asian Studies Association of Australia (ASAA) sponsors this publication
series as part of its on-going commitment to promoting knowledge about women in
Asia. In particular, the ASAA Women’s Forum provides the intellectual vigour and
enthusiasm that maintains the Women in Asia Series (WIAS). The aim of the series,
since its inception in 1990, is to promote knowledge about women in Asia to both
academic and general audiences. To this end, WIAS books draw on a wide range of
disciplines including anthropology, sociology, political science, cultural studies
and history.
The Series could not function without the generous professional advice provided
by many anonymous readers. Moreover, the wise counsel provided by Peter
Sowden and Tom Bates at Routledge is invaluable. WIAS, its authors and the
ASAA are very grateful to these people for their expert work.
Louise Edwards (University of Technology Sydney)

Preface

This book contributes to knowledge about gender. While consistently drawing
on gender theory, the primary aim of the text is to explore how individuals
in Indonesia engage with gender in everyday situations. The book examines
peoples’ experiences of and thoughts about the relationships between gender, biological sex and sexuality. Understandings of gender construction, gender essentialism and gender performativity are interrogated. It analyses the dynamics of
local, national and global gender interactions, and the impact of religious and
historical factors on contemporary gender forms. The book also problematizes
common notions of femininity and masculinity. In addressing these issues the
volume focuses on a number of subject positions, including transgender females
(calalai), transgender males (calabai), androgynous shamans (bissu), women
and men.
The contextual setting of the book is the nation-state of Indonesia. While utilizing a range of sources, ethnographic material is primarily drawn from Bugis South
Sulawesi. Although much of the material specifically speaks to Bugis experiences,
one of the tasks anthropologists undertake is extending material based on the particular to enable it to inform wider discussions. As such, the book’s specific primary research base grounds the broader theoretical and conceptual analysis of
gender in Indonesia.
While Gender Diversity in Indonesia centres on Bugis in South Sulawesi, I am
conscious of the danger of unproblematically conflating ethnic group and location,
which Boellstorff (2002) terms ethnolocality. One example of this conflation is
seen in a 2007 Siaran Radio Australia programme, broadcast in Indonesian, where
the interviewer commented to the interviewee, a PhD student at Melbourne
University, ‘So, you speak Indonesian and English, and of course it goes without
saying Batak.’ There was an assumption that because the interviewee was born in a
specific place that he identified as belonging to the associated Indonesian ethnic
group and spoke the corresponding language. And yet ethnicity is not necessarily
tied to place. I recently met a student in New Zealand who identified herself as
Bugis. When I asked her more specific details she acknowledged, however, that
she had never actually been to Sulawesi nor did she speak Bugis. Linking her
identity with an ethnic group remained important even though it was not tangibly
tied to location (cf. Silvey, 2000a). This book thus critically engages with the

Preface xiii
complexities of inhabiting various subject positions such as Bugis, Indonesian,
Muslim and occupying non-normative gender spaces.
In Indonesia gender ideals are disseminated through a variety of sources, such as
government ideology, school curricula and religion. The strength and pervasiveness of these ideals means that individuals feel constant pressure to conform to gendered expectations. While this book focuses on non-normative gendered subject
positions, the production of such selves is achieved in constant relation to ideal
notions of gender. While queer theory has tended to concentrate on homosexuality
and to a lesser extent transgender, it can provide a useful framework for analysing
heterosexuality and critiquing the meanings of woman and man (cf. Valocci 2005;
Marcus, 2005). This book therefore utilizes queer theory to examine the construction of heteronormativity, to reveal ways in which gender ideals are disseminated,
and to explore the dynamic negotiations and expressions that non-normative gendered subjects make in respect to the very discourses that shape their subjective
coherence.
Additionally, the book analyses meanings and interpretations of the concepts
gender, sex and sexuality. While examining these concepts separately, the
book also explores their co-constitution in the production of gendered selves.
What is revealed is that the convergence of biological sex and sexuality, as well
as roles, behaviours, sense of self, spirituality and other factors, produces a concept
that can be labelled gender. The multifarious nature of gender thus makes
various gendered subject positions possible, the intricacies of which the book
explores.
The following pages problematize binaries of feminine and masculine, woman
and man, homosexuality and heterosexuality, and the female/male binarism that
Boellstorff (2007b: 21) notes ‘remains dominant at ontological, epistemological
and political levels throughout much of the world, despite its instability, variability, and surprisingly poor link to any supposed biological “foundation”.’ A focus on
queer subjects is one way to interrogate such binaries. Indeed Stein (2004: 256)
stresses the need to ‘take seriously the challenges that transgendered scholars and
activists pose to binary understandings of sex and gender and to the ways that they
point to different ways of living in our bodies’.
Theorists, researchers and activists have long been critical of sex/gender/sexuality binaries. Haraway (1988: 581, 594), for instance, suggested a means of permanently problematizing binary distinctions without eliminating their strategic utility.
In an attempt to denaturalize gender binaries, Butler (1990: 149) proposed that cultural configurations of sex and gender proliferate, ‘confounding the very binarism
of sex, and exposing its fundamental unnaturalness’. In a further shift away from
the binary system, Wittig (1992) sought to reposition lesbians outside the dualistic
gender framework altogether, a realignment she argues is necessary in order to
overcome patriarchy. Many trans activists also call for moves towards norms that
do not embody compulsory binary gender roles (e.g. Bornstein, 1997; Wilchins,
1997). In engaging with the dilemmas of gender binaries, this book analyses
various theoretical propositions and explores ways in which queer subjects
concomitantly reproduce, reinforce, resist and rework such dialectics.

xiv Preface
A key factor shaping gender in Indonesia is globalization. Of primary significance is the role of the mass media, which broadcasts potential role models from
places such as the USA, India and the Middle East. Moreover, the ready accessibility of video compact disks enables wide access to foreign films and music. People
also continue to travel abroad for business and pleasure, particularly to Mecca,
Malaysia, Singapore and Australia, bringing home ideas of gender. The post-9/11
world has additionally impacted the ways in which gender is experienced in the
archipelago. For instance, Islam has become an increasingly public part of many
people’s daily lives, seen most visibly through the growing numbers of Indonesian
women wearing head scarves (jilbab) (Adamson, 2007; Parker, 2008a; SmithHefner, 2007; van Wichelen, 2007). In addition, after strong lobbying by a small
group of staunch Islamist parties who argued that globalization was chipping away
at the country’s moral fibre, the Indonesian parliament passed the AntiPornography Bill. The new law, ratified on 26 November as Law No. 44 of 2008 on
Pornography, seeks to regulate the dissemination of pornographic material
(Pausacker, 2008). This book investigates how gender in Indonesia is reworked by
engagement with global trends, such as these rising Islamic influences. By investigating the interactions between the global, the national and the local, the book provides a ‘corrective to the focus on locality which remains a stubbornly persistent
methodological, theoretical, and political presupposition for anthropological
inquiry’ (Boellstorff, 2007b: 22).
This book also presents detailed and situated discussions of the interactions
between the ‘global’ and the ‘local’ by drawing on what Johnson, Jackson and
Herdt (2000) frame as critical regionalities. Critical regionalities is a means of
‘describing both the various ways in which an area of the world is imagined as
being separate and distinct and of describing the flows of people, goods and ideas
through which a particular region or world area is made’ (Johnson et al., 2000: 372).
In this approach regions are not seen as internally coherent bounded entities, but as
theoretically and politically useful necessary fictions (Johnson et al., 2000: 372).
The critical regionalities approach also fosters appreciation of the ways that localization takes place through globalization, and it is sensitive to processes of the indigenization of modernity (cf. Blackwood, 2008). As such, while this book is based
on field work primarily in rural Bugis South Sulawesi, it shows the dynamics of
global flows and the ways that globalization gives new and affirmed meaning to
gender within this particular locale and within wider Indonesia.
In addition to analysing the interactions between various spatial scales, the book
examines evocations of the past. The past is not drawn upon here to affirm claims
of current legitimacy made by some gendered subjects. Indeed the book recognizes
that individuals have varying investments in the past. Rather, the book critically
assesses the ways in which echoes of both the real and imagined past are manipulated and strategically deployed in Indonesia in respect to contemporary gendered
formations and expressions.
In further exploring gender in Indonesia, the book undertakes an analysis of the
multiple ways in which Islam impacts gendered subjectivities. The book shows that
through avenues such as daily sermons broadcast from the mosque, popular culture

Preface xv
disseminated through the mass media, and the influence of Islamist political parties
on public policy, Islam sculpts gendered expressions. Both ethnographic and textual materials are analysed, revealing the contradictions operating in the ways
Islam influences gendered displays and performances. For instance, while a conservative side of Islam seeks to regulate what are interpreted as deviant expressions
and behaviours, a more accommodating side of Islam, which is variously deployed
to justify, tolerate and accept non-normative gendered subjects, is also evident.
This book views gendered subject positions as contingent, variable and positioned by discursive structures, rather than as the permanent property of individuals. Viewing subject positions in this way fosters recognition of the constitutive
relationship between structure and agency in gender formation (cf. McNay, 2000;
Parker, 2005a, b). While this book draws primarily upon subjective and narrativized experiences of gender, critical attention is also given to the discourses,
structures and social processes that massage gendered subjects into being. By offering nuanced analyses, this book hopes to present a rich and sensitive account of the
complexities of gender in Indonesia.

Acknowledgments

First and foremost I would like to thank people in South Sulawesi for the support
and encouragement extended to me since I first started research on gender in the
area in 1998: Andi Idham Bachri and his extended family, Yanti, Karol, Soer,
Acing, Andi Bau Muddaria Petta Balla Sari, Dr Dharmawan Mas’ud, Puang Matoa
Saidi, Haji Lacce’, Haji Gandaria, Andi Hasan Mahmud, Andi Mappasissi, Andi
Mappaganti, Drs Muhlis, Dian Abdurachman, Pak Budi and his family, Halilintar
Lathief, as well as all those who are not mentioned here.
Funding and sponsorship for this research have come from various sources. I
would like to thank the University of Western Australia (especially Asian Studies
and Anthropology), the Australian National University, the Indonesian Institute of
Science (Lembaga Ilmu Pengetahuan Indonesia), National Geographic, the Dutch
Government, a Huygens Nuffic Fellowship award, the Royal Institute of
Linguistics and Anthropology (KITLV) in the Netherlands, AsiaPacifiQueer,
Asia:NZ Foundation, a Sir Reginald Savory award, and particularly Auckland
University of Technology and the School of Languages and Social Sciences for
the space they have provided me to finally finish this book. The book builds on
ethnographic material published elsewhere (Davies, 2006a, 2006b, 2007a, 2007b;
Graham, 2001, 2004a, 2004b) and I sincerely thank all the publishers for their kind
permission to integrate and extend this material here.
I would also like to thank Lyn Parker and Greg Acciaioli who have provided constant support throughout the research process and to whom I am forever indebted.
Campbell Macknight, Peter Jackson, Roger Tol, Sirtjo Koolhof, Saskia Wieringa, Ian
Caldwell, Kathryn Anderson Wellen, Jen Warino, Sue Warino, Susanna Trnka, Jo
Schmidt, Tim Behrend, Graeme MacRae, Veronica Strang, Dédé Oetomo and Evelyn
Blackwood also deserve a big thank you, as does Louise Edwards for encouraging me
to publish with Routledge and providing such wonderful editorial comment. Linda
Bennett, Tom Boellstorff and Nurul Ilmi Idrus warrant special acknowledgment
for their careful and insightful reviews of the manuscript. I would also like to thank
all of my family for their support, especially Tom Graham Davies, Alfie Jack
Graham Davies and ana’ kutampu’, who have enriched my life in countless ways.
The Author and Publisher would like to thank the following for permission to
reprint material in Gender Diversity in Indonesia:

Acknowledgments xvii
Elsevier for kind permission to reprint material originally published as Davies,
S. G. (2006b). Thinking of Gender in a Holistic Sense: Understandings of
Gender in Sulawesi, Indonesia. In V. Demos & M. T. Segal (eds), Gender and
the Local-Global Nexus: Theory, Research, and Action (Vol. 10, pp. 1–24).
Inside Indonesia for kind permission to reprint material originally published as
Graham, S. (2001b). Sulawesi’s Fifth Gender. Inside Indonesia, April–June
(66), 16–17.
Intersections for kind permission to reprint quotations originally published
in Graham, S. (2001). Negotiating Gender: Calalai’ in Bugis Society.
Intersections: Gender, History, and Culture in the Asian Context, 6
http://intersections.anu.edu.au
Journal of Bisexuality for kind permission to reprint fieldnote quotations
originally published in Graham, S. (2004b). While Diving, Drink Water:
Bisexual and Transgender Intersections in South Sulawesi, Indonesia. Journal
of Bisexuality, 3(3/4), 231–48.
Palgrave Macmillan for kind permission to reprint material originally published as Davies, S. G. (2007b). Hunting Down Love: Female Masculinity in
Bugis Society. In E. Blackwood, S. Wieringa & A. Bhaiya (eds), Women’s
Sexualities and Masculinities in a Globalizing Asia (pp. 139–158).
Taylor & Francis Group Journals for kind permission to reprint quotations
originally published in Graham, S. (2004a). It’s Like One of Those Puzzles:
Conceptualising Gender among Bugis. Journal of Gender Studies, 13(2),
107–16.
Thomson Wadsworth for kind permission to reprint ethnographic material
originally published in Davies, S. Challenging Gender Norms. Boston:
Wadsworth.
Victoria University of Wellington Press for kind permission to reprint material
originally published as Davies, S. G. (2006a). Gender and Status in Bugis
Society. In S. Epstein (ed.), Understanding Indonesia (pp. 93–106).

1

Framing place and process

The stars of the catwalk have just returned from the pilgrimage to Mecca. Clear
symbols of their newly acquired haji status are visible in the form of various head
coverings. As with their outfits, the head coverings come in many styles, colours,
and fabrics. It is a little after seven in the Indonesian town of Sengkang when the
MC calls out the name of the first participant in the evening’s main event, a Muslim
fashion parade. The first contestant saunters onto the stage, slowly and demurely
doing one turn and then another. Twenty people are vying to be crowned the winner of this event and thus be publicly recognized as the most elegant embodiment
of Muslim femininity in Sengkang. The audience is jammed tight in the ground
floor venue, leaving little room for the three judges. The judges have, by necessity,
all been on the hajj and are former winners of this competition.
When all the contestants have had their turn on the catwalk, the head judge takes
the microphone from the MC and tells the audience that the quality of the contestants was quite high. The judge notes, however, that some of the contestants did not
exhibit the qualities required in respect to proper Muslim femininity. What is
needed, the judge reveals, is an ability to walk with composure, to walk softly and
slowly, taking small, delicate steps. Turning should be controlled, balanced, and
seamless. Poses should be refined, elegant, supple, and poised. Unfortunately some
contestants, the judge announces, were too quick in their steps, too unbalanced in
their turns, and too stiff in their poses. The judge also vocally assesses attire,
reminding everyone that the body should be covered yet the feminine form should
still be visible. The selection of colours, styles, and materials is critiqued and
deemed to be of a generally acceptable standard. Accessories are an important part
of the presentation, the judge states. As such, appropriate handbags, shoes, earrings, necklaces, hairstyles and cosmetics are all essential. However, not all of the
contestants’ accessories conformed to the particular image of Muslim femininity
that the judges value. The head judge then announces the decision as to which contestant best exemplifies the image of Muslim femininity. The winner and runner-up
are presented with trophies and the audience claps enthusiastically in recognition of
their achievements.
The event proceeds in a manner that conforms to beauty pageant norms found
around Indonesia and elsewhere. A rigid model of femininity is presented and contestants strive to emulate this model as precisely as possible. Contestants are ranked

2

Framing place and process

against each other, clearly marking which contestant epitomizes the desired model
and which falls short. Such events not only mirror a more general obsession with
beauty and appearance in Indonesia, but also highlight the popularity of a particular contemporary Islamic aesthetic. However, there is one aspect of this competition that departs from other similar events; the participants in this fashion parade
are not women, but transgender males.
The vignette above introduces well the complexities of gender in Indonesia. On
the one hand there is a seemingly specific gendered model of modest, pious subjecthood, represented most compellingly for many in the Islamic feminine ideal
outlined in part by the head judge. Yet, on the other hand, there is a playfulness
attached to gendered subjectivities that allows, for instance, males to emulate femininity publicly and be rewarded for doing so. In drawing out the issues that events
such as this beauty pageant raise, this book informs contemporary debates concerning gender, sex, and sexuality. It addresses critical aspects of the construction
of gendered selves such as embodiment, desire, performativity. The text also
explores the interplay between religion, the local, the nation, and the global, in both
contemporary and historical contexts, to show how discursive structures shape
gendered positions. Furthermore, gender ideals are interrogated while concomitantly exploring ways in which queer subjects interrelate with normative gender
models. In highlighting these issues the ethnographic approach used here enables
focus to remain on the particularities of gendered subject positions while drawing
on a range of theories to elucidate the analysis.
The book’s chapters progressively build a picture of gender in Indonesia. By
journeying through various discourses, it weaves together theoretical understandings of gender with gender processes and practices. Initially, the text provides a
chronology of understandings of gender, indexing moves in dominant theories
from Mead to Butler and beyond. Ideas of the body are then drawn on, analysing
how both theorists and individuals account for the body in respect to gender. In so
doing, sexuality, performance, and spirituality are explored within the context of
recent developments in transgender theory.
To ensure cross-cultural studies of gender do not essentialize a timeless subject,
Johnson (1997) stresses the need to look at shifting historical contexts and spatial
fields in which identities and practices have developed as products of political and
cultural engagements. This book thus investigates the real and imagined past of
Bugis South Sulawesi, exploring ways in which the past is evoked in contemporary
society. I analyze sources of information available on the past before moving to
explore roles variously gendered beings are commonly considered to have assumed.
A substantial part of the volume concentrates on ways in which individuals
become properly gendered members of society. In addition to showing the centrality of gender in the archipelago, the book outlines Indonesian and Bugis gender
ideals of masculinity and femininity as disseminated through government ideology, promoted through familial values, supported through discourses of courtship
and marriage, and spread through the mass media. Recognizing the importance of
discussing Islam, I draw specific links between Islam in Indonesia and that nation’s
complex norms of gender and sexuality.

Framing place and process 3
While the aim of the work is to show how people engage with gender, the book’s
specific focus is on non-normative genders. As such, chapters are dedicated to the
subject positions of calalai (transgender females), calabai (transgender males), and
androgynous bissu shamans. Within these respective chapters, I examine presentations of self and recraftings of masculinity and femininity and interrogate issues of
embodiment, sexuality, and individual relationships with Islam and general society. As with the text as a whole, the theoretical analysis inherent in these chapters is
fleshed out with rich ethnographic data.
The setting for this exploration is the nation-state of Indonesia (Figure 1.1).
While the Indonesian government is overtly heteronormative, the state has maintained a relatively neutral legal stance toward transgenderism and homosexuality.
There are no laws against transgender behaviour or same-sex acts between consenting adults. Even proposed revisions to the Penal Code do not seek to outlaw
consenting adult homosexuality (Oetomo, 2006). For instance, the proposed
revised Article 493 reads ‘A person who engages in indecent acts (perbuatan
cabul) with another person of the same sex (sama jenis kelaminnya) under 18 years
of age will receive a sentence of from one to seven years’ (cited in Blackwood,
2007: 301). This revision changes the current law only to specify a minimum age
limit and increase the maximum sentence by two years. What has long been penalized, though, and is reaffirmed in the proposed revisions, is any sexual relations
between a man and woman outside marriage (zina), and any sexual relations within

Figure 1.1 Map of Indonesia: The island of Sulawesi, near the centre of the map, is to the
east of Borneo and the north of Bali.

4

Framing place and process

marriage other than heterosexual penile-vaginal sex (Blackwood, 2007: 301).
Blackwood (2007: 302) argues that surrounding debates over these proposals have
moved the ‘discursive terrain away from the definition of properly gendered citizens to questions concerning the liberal notion of human rights (of privacy, of freedom of expression and association) versus the moral sensibilities of the people.’
Prior to the 1990s the deployment of gender was enough to produce heteronormative reproductive citizens. However, the proposed revisions to the Penal Code more
closely link proper citizenship to definitions of sexual acts (Blackwood, 2007:
304). Yet while this shift in focus further codifies heterosexual relations, same-sex
relations continue to be secondary considerations.
While Indonesia is home to more Muslims than any other country, it is a pluralist nation with around 20 million Protestants and Catholics, 5 million Hindus and
2.5 million Buddhists, out of a total population of almost 235 million people. Most
Muslims are Sunni, but there is a wide range of variations, including a growing
number of Sufi adherents (Howell, 2001, 2005). Although Indonesia allows religious choice, Howell (2005) notes that the nation follows a policy of delimited religious pluralism – meaning people are technically free to follow their own religion
as long as it is one of six world religions recognized by Indonesia – those mentioned
above with the recent addition of Confucianism.
Geographically, the archipelago of Indonesia encases some 6000 inhabited
islands, with sovereignty over another 11,000. There are around 500 ethnic groups,
and over 737 living languages, with 269 of them spoken in the disputed province of
Papua alone (Gordon, 2005). The geographic terrain and diversity of language
caused logistical problems for both colonialism and the subsequent independence
movement. Moves were thus made to unify Indonesia under the Malay language
and conceptualize it as an archipelagic nation.
Since independence from Dutch and Japanese occupation in 1945, and up until
1998, Indonesia had only two presidents: Sukarno followed by Suharto. In the
decade since Suharto’s forced resignation there have been four presidents: B. J.
Habibie, Abdurachman Wahid, Megawati Sukarnoputri and current president
Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono. There have also been continuing separatist movements in Aceh and Papua, with East Timor finally gaining independence in 2002.
In addition, regions such as South Sulawesi are requesting more autonomy and
there are increasing calls to decentralize power. The impact of such moves on marginal communities is a current topic of debate (Aragon, 2007; Buehler, 2007;
Buehler and Tan, 2007; Duncan, 2007).
While focusing on Indonesia, most of the ethnographic material contained in this
book is drawn from Sulawesi (Figure 1.2). Likened by some in shape to a Freudian
doodle, the island of Sulawesi spreads its tentacles between Borneo to the West,
Maluku to the east, the Philippines to the north and Flores to the south. The island
is the eleventh largest in the world and it is home to around fifteen million people
speaking over fifty different languages. The largest ethnic group, Bugis, number
almost five and a half million people, most of who live in the province of South
Sulawesi – elsewhere Idrus (2003) provides further statistical information on the
region. Bugis continue to have influence outside South Sulawesi, though. In the

Framing place and process 5

Figure 1.2 Map of Sulawesi: The city of Makassar is the capital of South Sulawesi.
Reprinted and updated with kind permission from Greg Acciaioli.

6

Framing place and process

realm of politics, for example, a number of Bugis, including Sulawesi-born former
President B. J. Habibie, the long-serving Mayor of East Jakarta, Andi Mappaganti,
and the current spokesperson for President Yudhoyono, Andi Mallarangeng, have
disrupted Javanese political domination.
The capital city of South Sulawesi, Makassar (once known as Ujung Pandang)
became a dominant trading centre of eastern Indonesia as early as the sixteenth century and it went on to become one of the sixth largest cities in Southeast Asia,
indeed it was comparable in size to many European capitals (Reid, 2000: 58). In
1605, the ruler of the state of Goa in southern Sulawesi converted to Islam and subsequently sought to impose Islam on neighbouring rulers (Ricklefs, 1993: 48).
While today over 90 per cent of Bugis adhere to Islam, the region’s relatively tolerant nature has meant other religions and belief systems continue to be expressed, if
at times covertly. In other Sulawesi areas, though, religious rivalries have played
out with devastating effects, such as in neighbouring Poso where there have been
recent violent clashes between Christians and Muslims (Aragon, 2001, 2005).
Driving north from Makassar a detour into the centre of the peninsula takes travellers to the bustling lake-side town of Sengkang. While located less than two hundred kilometres from the capital, the mountainous jungle terrain means the journey
rarely takes less than five hours by car. Danau Tempe is a shallow lake fringed by
beautiful wetlands that provide sanctuary for many types of birdlife. Fisherfolk live
on the lake for part or all of the year in floating homes (bola monang, B) tethered by
a bamboo pole. Living on the lake facilitates catching and drying fish that are then
taken to market on motorized canoes. However, with consistent reports that the
lake is drying up, people are increasingly talking about the difficulties of sustaining
such a livelihood. Sengkang is also a key centre of silk production and it is not
uncommon when walking around the villages surrounding the town to hear the
click-clack of hand-looms weaving silk sarong. Unlike their northern Toraja neighbours, whose funeral ceremonies are one of the most famous attractions in Sulawesi
(Bigalke, 2005; Volkman, 1985), the most celebrated life-cycle ritual for Bugis
are highly elaborate and lengthy weddings (Davies, 2007a; Idrus, 2003, 2004;
Millar, 1989).1
The ethnographic material presented in this book has been collected over a period
of more than two years spent in Indonesia, primarily in South Sulawesi, spread
between 1998 and 2008, with the most sustained period of field work being twelve
months between 1999 and 2000. The book provides readers with rich ethnographic
material that is used to draw out particular theoretical propositions. Following
Geertz (1973b), I acknowledge that thick description can serve as a robust source of
information. Valocchi (2005: 751) further notes that, ‘ethnography is especially
well suited to handle the methodological challenges associated with distinguishing
practices, identities, and hegemonic structures of gender and sexuality, an important
component of a queer perspective.’ Boellstorff (2006c) also affirms the strengths of
anthropological ethnography in fleshing out queer studies as this approach involves
a mutually constitutive triad of method, data, and theory. Additionally, Stryker
(2004: 214) comments that with solid ethnographic grounding, accounts are less
likely to reproduce ‘the power structures of colonialism by subsuming non-Western

Framing place and process 7
configurations of personhood into Western constructs of sexuality and gender.’
Ethnographic material is certainly not without fault, though, and the data needs rigorous reflection and examination, which this volume undertakes.
The book’s ethnographic analysis is grounded in my interpretation of what some
people told me about gender and what I have observed. I have discussed my work
and findings at length with Bugis friends and colleagues, as well as with scholars of
Indonesia and gender. My analytical approach is further informed by a number of
general fields of study, such as ethnographic work on gender and sexuality, writings by and about transgender individuals and issues, works of gender, sexuality
and queer theory, and material on Indonesia and Southeast Asia. While my analyses have been generally affirmed, I certainly cannot claim to speak for a majority of
Bugis. Yet Chodorow (1995: 522) notes that we can generalize usefully about gender within particular cultural groups, although ‘we need to be careful that our
claims do not go beyond our data base, or that we specify the basis of our speculations that they can.’
While not losing sight of critical empiricism, the ways in which I gathered information were rather serendipitous. I took advantage of invitations to weddings, birth
ceremonies, initiation rites, birthday parties, funerals, fashion parades, official
government functions, spiritual rituals and blessings. However, being a single
woman living with a host-family meant that it was often difficult for me to participate in particular night time events with calalai and calabai, such as visiting nightclubs or hanging out in public spaces after dark.
I employed an extended case-study methodology, using a snowballing technique
to establish initial contacts. I specifically sought a wide range of views of gender
from calabai, calalai, bissu, women and men, as well as specific people employed
as religious leaders, government officials and school teachers. For a number of reasons, a majority of the general narrative information contained in this book comes
from men rather than from women. Being a guest in people’s homes often meant it
was considered impolite to allow me to help with food preparation and cleaning up.
As such, I was frequently left to chat and drink tea with men. Men also tended to be
more flexible in meeting for interviews and were more likely to approach me in
public life. Men additionally constituted the majority of religious and government
officials. Moreover, in mixed groups men were more likely to offer comment on
matters of gender than were women.
I took extensive notes, sometimes during events and conversations, sometimes
soon after they had occurred. In addition to undertaking participant observation and
talking with people on an informal and formal (e.g. during interviews and focus
groups) basis, material has been gathered from archival sources, government fora,
religious debates, and mass media presentations. After much consideration I have
included photographs of individuals in this book. While I recognize that in the
future Indonesia may take a harsher stance against gender non-conformity, people
expressed a willingness to have their images included. I have not included, though,
any photos of calalai. While some individuals were happy to have their image
included I unfortunately do not have any photos of sufficient resolution. I write
more extensively on field work and methodology elsewhere (Davies, 2007a).

8

Framing place and process

The positions and motives of the researcher are important foci of current writings
about gender, sex and sexuality. One reason for the focus on positionality stems
from the concern that much has been written about trans people by non-trans feminists that has not only been hostile but ‘taken an explicit disidentification with
transsexuals’ experiences as its critical standpoint’ (Heyes, 2003: 1096). I am conscious of the challenges of gender, sex and sexuality for all types of people, not only
gay, lesbian, trans, bisexual, queer and intersex (GLBTQI) subjects, but also for
individuals left out of this acronym who are often thought to have no gender, sex or
sexuality struggles at all. As a non-homosexual, non-trans woman researching gender, sex and sexuality, I am motivated by a commitment to interrogating structures
and experiences. I heed Hale’s (1997) suggestions for non-trans people writing
about trans issues, particularly in regard to maintaining respect, and also take on
board Heyes’ (2003: 1096) call to avoid Orientialist approaches (Said, 1978),
which she notes have characterized much feminist discussion of trans issues where
feminists try to deal with trans by making statements about it, authorizing views of
it, describing it, by teaching it and by ruling over it.
While most conversations during field work were conducted in Indonesian, I did
actively learn Bugis, and learning two languages provided much entertainment, as
this excerpt from my field notes suggests:
One of my closest informants is a bissu named Haji Lacce’. Yesterday I mispronounced hir name calling hir Haji Laso’, which s/he sternly told me never
to do again. Later that night I recounted my mispronunciation to my host-family while we were preparing the evening meal. Everyone then screeched with
laughter, leaving me looking baffled, which, of course, made the whole event
even more amusing. Erna finally managed to contain herself enough to say that
I had called Haji Lacce’ Haji Penis.
(Field notes, 1999)
Throughout this book I make extensive use of my own field notes and the words of
informants. Narratives often incorporate both Bugis and Indonesian words, representing either the language the conversation was conducted in or, more commonly,
a narrative in Indonesian where Bugis words were used for specific emphasis. Idrus
(2003: 17) also records a jumping between languages and she comments that even
when Bugis was the first language of both interlocutor and herself, the former
would often use Indonesian to emphasize their modernity. Indonesian words are
written in italics with a translation when they first appear. Bugis words are also rendered in italics and appear with the text (B) and a definition on their first occurrence. Frequently used non-English words appear in the glossary. I give only
general translations of terms. For instance, the meaning of roh is given as soul and
jiwa as spirit, although more complex translations would be possible. I generally do
not signal the origin of words, such as adat (traditional custom) from Dutch, or
nafsu (desire) from Arabic, recognizing that these words are considered
Indonesian. Glottal stops are signalled by ’ – e.g. Lacce’. In previous work, I have
ended calabai and calalai with a glottal stop. Ilmi Idrus (pers. comm., 2008) suggests, however, that these words are often pronounced without a glottal stop and

Framing place and process 9
here I follow her recommendation. All names used throughout this book are pseudonyms. Pluralization in Indonesian and Bugis is either by repetition of the word
(pisang-pisang, banana-banana) or given from the context (banyak pisang, many
banana). I have elected not to specifically pluralize Indonesian words by adding an
‘s’; instead the context in which the word appears should make any pluralization
clear (e.g. there were many pisang on the floor). Unless otherwise stated, all translations are my own.
There is no indigenous word for gender in either Bugis or Indonesian. What is
occasionally used is jender or gender derived from the English (Adamson, 2007).
Jenis kelamin (type of sex organ) is used to refer to biological sex. This lack of an
indigenous term does not mean gender is not an important concept. Indeed it is, but
outside academic and activist circles gender is often expressed in other ways, as this
book shows. I also use the terms femininity and masculinity. While there are certainly no universal or essential characteristics constituting these categories,
Chapter 5 deconstructs these terms, providing an analysis of normative presentations of masculinity and femininity in an Indonesian context.
Neither the Indonesian nor Bugis languages distinguish between gender pronouns, using instead the gender non-specific third person singular pronouns dia and
-i/na-/-na respectively. I thus use hir and s/he to denote subject positions beyond
the binary her/his, he/she (cf. Blackwood, 1999, 2005a; Feinberg, 1998; Johnson,
1997: 14; Wilchins, 1995, 1997). There are, however, difficulties with using hir and
s/he. These terms linguistically conflate calalai, calabai and bissu subjectivities and
mask the significant asymmetry that exists between them. Moreover, as Boellstorff
(2007a: 83) notes, such neologisms have the potential to exoticize the individuals
so described. I therefore considered retaining the use of she and he depending on
how individuals most identified. A problem with this latter approach, though, was
that some people talked about particular individual embodiments that combined
male and female, or they presented a feminine self while affirming maleness. I also
considered using dia, or s/he and hir, for all individuals to challenge readers to
move beyond attributing a clear binary gender based on pronoun, but this proved
problematic. As a result, despite its shortfalls, hir and s/he seems a constructive
compromise to think about gendered perceptions (cf. Webster, 2008).
As Boellstorff (2001) has remarked, while the issue of language is a tricky one,
debates concerning terms provide a context in which new ways of thinking about
gender and sexuality emerge. Indeed, Valocchi (2005: 758) discusses further the
inability of available taxonomies to capture non-normative gender, sex and sexual
identities, while Kulick (1999) stresses the need for more attention to be given to
the linguistic creativity that is increasingly being exploited by transgender individuals. Looking further at this issue, Kulick (1999) analyses ways in which language
use constitutes subjectivities, noting the important role language has in composing
and indexing gender. With reference to Foucault’s (1980a) discussion of Herculine
Barbin, Kulick reveals how life exceeded contemporary languages’ capacity to
provide Barbin with an identity. This raises the question of how you can meaningfully articulate your life without language. Kulick also shows how English is
deployed to indicate particular subjectivities that are not readily expressed in a

10

Framing place and process

native language or local discourse. Genders then may be indexed locally but only
fully intelligible in terms of global and transnational processes and perceptions. In
light of these issues, the terms used in this book to represent and explore subject
positions warrant some discussion.
In this book I employ the Bugis term calalai, pronounced cha-la-lae and etymologically meaning ‘false man’ (Pelras, 1996: 165), to refer to female-born individuals who rework the category woman and who do not necessarily wish to be
considered men. There is no single term that calalai use in relation to their sense of
self, or that others use in reference to calalai. Some female-born individuals use the
term hunter to express their subjectivity. As one informant, Dilah, told me, ‘I prefer the term hunter because we hunt down love and then pounce on it.’ Others
use the term tomboi to describe their sense of self (cf. Blackwood, 1999). Calalai
in more rural settings though are not necessarily familiar with these latter two
terms. No one I met in Sulawesi used the term lesbi to refer to hirself, although
other people used it as a (usually derogative) reference. As Murray (1999: 142)
points out, ‘Indonesian women do not like to use the label [lesbian/lesbi] to
describe themselves since it is connected with unpleasant stereotypes and the
pathological view of deviance derived from Freudian psychology’ (cf. Foucault,
1978). Jackson (2000a: 411) similarly found in Thailand that tom and dee resist
calling themselves lesbian because this term entered the Thai language to describe
female homosexual visual pornography produced for a heterosexual male audience
(cf. Sinnott, 2004: 205). For Thai homosexual women, as for many individuals in
Indonesia, the term lesbian/lesbi is thus resisted because it is understood as
representing female-focused relationships in overly sexualized terms. Other
researchers have found, however, that individuals in Indonesia do use the term
lesbi (e.g. Blackwood, 2005b; Boellstorff, 2007a; Idrus, 2006; Webster, 2008),
thus signalling the complexity and flux of language use in the archipelago (cf.
Blackwood, 2008).
While calalai subject positions are influenced by an array of national and international factors, individuals in South Sulawesi are located within particular contextual frames of understanding regarding such factors as marriage, shame,
religion, and ethnicity. While I do not use the term calalai to evoke a specific isolated indigenous concept, use of the term enables critical engagement with the local
while concomitantly incorporating wider influences.
In this book I also refer to lines, which is a term used in urban centres to indicate
the femme partners of calalai, although in more rural settings such partners are generally referred to as perempuan/wanita (woman) or makkkunrai (B, woman). I italicize the term lines throughout the book because it is directly confusable with the
English word and in italics makes for clearer reading.
I use the Bugis term calabai, pronounced cha-la-bae and etymologically meaning ‘false woman’ (Pelras, 1996: 165), in respect to males who rework the category
of man and who do not necessarily wish to be considered women. There are a number of terms in use in Indonesia that are similar in meaning to calabai. The most
common terms include banci, bencong, wadam (from wanita adam, woman adam,
as in Adam and Eve), walsu (from wanita palsu, false woman) and waria (from

Framing place and process 11
wanita pria, woman man). Boellstorff outlines in more detail the etymology of
wadam and waria (2007a: 224, fn. 6) and banci (2007: 223–4, fn. 4). Again, there
is no single term favoured by all individuals, although waria is generally considered the most refined and popular national term. Indeed, the term used is often
dependent on which language is being spoken. As one individual told Boellstorff
(2007a: 83–4), ‘I’m called calabai’ with family . . . usually we say calabai’ based on
ethnicity but it means the same thing as banci . . . Calabai’, kawe-kawe, béncong,
waria, banci, they’re all the same . . . They’re only terms.’ While I use calabai
throughout this book, when including specific comments I reproduce the term individuals used. The partners of calabai are generally referred to as laki-laki normal
(normal men), although Lathief (2004: 119) notes that a man who becomes the
darling of a calabai may be known as toboto (B) or kaik.
This book also explores the subject positions of androgynous bissu shamans
(Figures 1.3, 1.4). The etymology of the term bissu remains unclear. There are a
number of hypotheses, however. At the 2002 La Galigo conference held in
Sulawesi one speaker gave a folk etymology arguing that the term bissu is a derivative of the Bugis word mabessi (clean). Lathief (2004: 2) further cites Andi
Palinrungi as noting that bissu are said to be mabessi because they must be pure
(suci), they cannot breast-feed, and they cannot menstruate. One informant, Andi
Galib, became convinced that the term bissu originates from Buddhism after a
monk visited him a few decades ago. Indeed, Pelras (1996: 71) notes that a common
interpretation of bissu derives from the Sanskrit word bhiksu, a term for Buddhist
monk (cf. Bulbeck, 1992: 512–13; Gonda, 1973: 158; Mills, 1975; Sirk, 1975:

Figure 1.3 Bissu performing ma’giri’ to prove possession by a powerful spirit. Photo taken
by S. G. Davies.

12

Framing place and process

Figure 1.4 Bissu having just performed a ritual blessing. Photo taken by S. G. Davies.

235–6). Indeed in a BBC Indonesia (2007b) report on protesting monks in Burma,
biksu was the term used, elsewhere biku (BBC Indonesia, 2007a). A number of
other people have also noted connections between Buddhism and bissu. For
instance, in conversation Bugis scholars such as Dharmawan Mas’ud and
Halilintar Lathief have mentioned links between the two in respect to clothing,
ceremonies and rituals.
When describing bissu in Indonesian many people use the term pendeta (priest).
In English accounts, too, bissu are frequently depicted as priests (e.g. Darling,
2004b; Grauer, 2004b; Lindsay, 2007). In this book, I refer to bissu as shamans as
this latter term seems to resonate better than priest with notions of possession and
the bestowal of blessings granted by spirits. I recognize, though, that there is a lot
of debate around using the term ‘shaman’ and, as Tsintjilonis (2006: 552) reveals,
people are still arguing whether the term should be restricted to Siberia or applied
to a broader category of spiritual practitioners. I also use the term ‘androgyny’ in
respect to bissu. Androgyny – from the Greek andros, meaning male and gyne
meaning female – is used to signal bissu constitution where bissu talk of embodying female and male elements, although bissu may do this symbolically rather than
being physically intersexed. However, androgyny does not by definition take into
consideration bissu as part deity, an element explored further in Chapter 8. Some
bissu additionally identify as calabai, showing the complex overlap and engagement between subject positions.

Framing place and process 13
To wade further into the tyranny of definitions I want to briefly outline how I am
using a number of other key terms. I use ‘identity’ to indicate a felt sense of self that
is publicly articulated. A difficulty with the term identity, however, is that it tends
to imply a coherent sense of self that is conspicuously avowed, which is often not
the case for queer subjects in Indonesia. Few calalai, for instance, identify themselves as such, unless pressed by an anthropologist, something Sinnott (2004: 142)
also found among tom and dee in Thailand where the act of verbal declaration of
self was seen as too confrontational. As such I find the use of ‘subject position’ a
generally more suitable term. Subject position can be thought of as a ‘socially recognized category of selfhood; one with a particular history and typically inhabitable in multiple ways’ (Boellstorff, 2007a: 36). I also employ the term ‘subjectivity’
to refer to individuals’ perceptions and feelings of self. I use sexuality as an inclusive term to capture both desires and behaviours. ‘Gender’ is taken as a holistic
concept, which Chapter 2 analyses further. I also make reference to the ‘West’, not
as a geographical territory or natural entity, but rather a historically produced category (Hall, 1992) that encompasses particular sets of ideas. I use the term
‘heteronormativity’ in part the way that Valocchi, drawing on Corber and Valocchi
(2003: 4), does, whereby heteronormativity:
means the set of norms that make heterosexuality seem natural or right and that
organize homosexuality as its binary opposition. This set of norms works to
maintain the dominance of heterosexuality by preventing homosexuality from
being a form of sexuality that can be taken for granted or go unmarked or seem
right in the way heterosexuality can.
(2005: 756)
I also extend the term, though, to suggest that heteronormativity encompasses all of
the associated systems, values and norms that are attached to heterosexuality, such
as rigid models of masculinity and femininity, and the assumption of the nuclear
family as the only legitimate familial form.
I use the catch-all term ‘transgender’ in this text while also recognizing its limitations. Transgender may imply a crossing from one reified normative gender to the
other. As this book shows, however, while official ideals of two genders exist in
Indonesia, calalai, calabai and bissu do not necessarily attempt to achieve one of
these ideals while completely rejecting the other. Possible alternatives to the term
transgender would be ‘gender transgression’ or ‘gender-transgressive ritual practitioners,’ terms Blackwood (2005a: 850) finds useful in her discussion of practices
that go beyond normative gender. Blackwood (2005a: 851) notes that while the
term transgender fits for Indonesian tomboi and waria, it ‘is less apt for ritual practitioners whose transgressively gendered practices do not permeate their everyday
lives’ and who legitimately transgress gender boundaries. However, while some
bissu may be transgressively gendered only for rituals, bissu I was able to get to
know see themselves as consistently combining male and female elements. Despite
its shortcomings, transgender seems a useful heuristic term to indicate subjects who
appropriate, modify, and extend normative gender categories. I thus follow Stryker
(1998; see also 2006) and use transgender:

14

Framing place and process
not to refer to one particular identity or way of being embodied but rather as an
umbrella term for a wide variety of bodily effects that disrupt or denaturalize
heteronormatively constructed linkages between an individual’s anatomy at
birth, a nonconsensually assigned gender category, psychical identifications
with sexed body images and/or gendered subject positions, and the performance of specifically gendered social, sexual, or kinship functions.
(1998: 149)

I make use of the term ‘queer’ in this book. While much debate is attached to the
application of the term, it is useful in signalling disruption. For Stryker (1998: 151),
queer can mean the sense of a utopian, all encompassing point of resistance to heteronormativity and a ‘posthomosexual’ reconfiguration of communities of people
marginalized by sexuality, embodiment, and gender. Use of queer is particularly
helpful not only in capturing subject positions but also politics and processes that at
some level challenge or defy dominant norms. While Marcus (2005: 196) uses the
term queer in a deliberately loose and inclusive manner, noting that complex identifications and differences undermine identity, she notes that queer has become a
victim of its own popularity, proliferating to the point of uselessness as a neologism
for the transgression of any norm. Indeed, Wieringa and Blackwood (1999), among
others, have previously resisted using the term queer because for them it ignores the
specificities of women’s experiences. Yet, Marcus (2005) suggests that despite its
limitations a queer framework is useful. Indeed, when employed as an analytical
etic device, rather than experientially, queer and queer theory are helpful tools in
discussions of gender (cf. Blackwood, 2008; Boellstorff, 2007a: 20–1).
While queer is not a word in general use in Indonesia, some people employ it as
a strategically neutral way of expressing an identity. For instance, Oetomo reveals
that the term queer can come across as a kind of kromo inggil (high Javanese) alternative that is more euphemistic than gay and/or lesbian and less likely to make people feel threatened (cited in Maimunah, 2008). Similarly, Thajib notes that the
neutrality of queer makes it an attractive and all-embracing term that people in
Indonesia who are ambivalent about their sexuality, or who feel different for whatever reason, can identify with (cited in Maimunah, 2008). As such, usage of the
term queer may increase in Indonesia.
Issues of race and ethnicity are fundamental to any consideration of gender.
Bettie (2003), for example, shows how girls’ gender subjectivity is class and
racially inflected in the USA, while Reddy (2005) demonstrates that hijra
identity in India is not reducible to gender or sexuality alone but additionally
connected to race, class, religion, kinship, corporeality, and hierarchies of respect.
Considerations of race and ethnicity are particularly central in discussions of
Indonesia in general (Bertrand, 2004), and more specifically in relation to gender in
Indonesia.
The position of ethnic Chinese is just one example of the complex and often precarious place of particular peoples in Indonesia (Hoon, 2006; Long, 2007). For
instance, one friend in Sulawesi has been covertly seeing a young man of Chinese
descent for the last five years. Although this man’s family has lived in Sulawesi for

Framing place and process 15
a number of generations he is still referred to derogatively as orang Cina (Chinese).
As their relationship is an open secret many members of the woman’s family privately express displeasure at the relationship, thus impeding any moves toward
marriage.
While recognizing the significance of race and ethnicity in both discussions of
Indonesia and of gender, these concepts receive relatively little specific attention in
this book. The primary reason for this neglect is the impossibility of considering all
facets of gender in Indonesia. As Boellstorff (2007b: 26) notes, it is acceptable to
examine gender in some cases without bringing up race; indeed such divides are
institutionalized in universities, as there are rarely calls for departments of gender
and race studies, for example.
The book now moves to Chapter 2 where the concept of gender is contextualized.

2

Contextualizing gender

This is a book about gender, but such a seemingly specific proposal is problematic;
gender is never just about ‘gender.’ Gender incorporates other aspects of life so that
what is presented as gender is invariably embedded within issues of status, ethnicity, occupation, culture, desires, and bodies, to name just a few. In recognition of
the complexity of gender, I follow Epple (1998) in employing deep cultural contextualization to present nuanced understandings of everyday experiences of gender and of gendered subject positions. In framing the book, the primary aim of this
chapter is to explore Indonesian meanings of gender, integrating ethnographic
material with theoretical concepts to give a robust analysis. In achieving this aim,
the chapter is divided into five sections. After charting an outline of key theoretical
approaches to gender, the chapter explores meanings of sexed bodies, aspects of
desire, performances of gender, and finally engages notions of spirituality and
gender.

Mapping gender
The term gender derives from the Latin genus meaning kind, sort, or class. Gender
in Western academic discourse gained its social construction meaning only in the
wake of second wave feminism, although it had been in use for quite some time in
European languages such as French (Illich, 1982: 13, fn. 7) and indeed Money
(1955) used gender to describe the sense of being a man or a woman separate from
biological differences (cited in Schleifer, 2006: 65). Indonesia has adapted the term
jender, although more frequently the phrase jenis kelamin (type of sex organ) is
used (Adamson, 2007). Clark (2004a: 15) notes that some people in Indonesia are
still inclined to think that gender refers to gender, the name of a gamelan musical
instrument used in a traditional Javanese orchestra. Before the concept of gender,
in Western discourse biological sex – with additional considerations such as class
and race – was considered to be the point of origin, and natural limit, of an individual’s social identity (Roscoe, 1994: 341). Moreover, biological sex was thought to
determine personality and character (e.g. women were naturally more nurturing
and emotional because they were child-bearers). With this belief there was, therefore, no need to differentiate ‘natural’ sex roles and behaviours from ‘constructed’
ones (cf. Haraway, 1991). There were considered to be two sexes, which naturally

Contextualizing gender 17
resulted in two genders, a binary categorization that progressed from the notion of
females being the inverts of males (Breger, 2005).
The anthropologist Margaret Mead was one of the first scholars to question
the centrality of biological determinism in respect to gender formation. Mead
argued that the organization of gender did not merely reflect or elaborate
biological destiny; rather, gender was socially and culturally produced. Mead
further stated:
The material suggests that we may say that many, if not all, of the personality
traits which we have called masculine or feminine are as lightly linked to sex
as are the clothing, the manners, and the form of head-dress that a society at a
given period assigns to either sex.
(1935: 280)
Some of Mead’s early work was based on a comparison of gender among three
tribes in Papua New Guinea. Mead found that there were aggressive women and
nurturing men in one tribe, while in a neighbouring tribe, the women were nurturing and the men were aggressive. If there were such startling differences between
cultures, then gender must be constructed. Indeed, Mead (1935: 280) argued that
‘we no longer have any basis for regarding such aspects of behaviour as sex linked’
– this was Mead’s early position, though, and in her later writings (e.g. 1950) she
tempered the extreme cultural relativism of her social constructionist position by
reverting to a more biologically constrained version. While controversy surrounds
Mead’s work, this landmark finding was ‘one of the earliest – if not the earliest –
ethnographic contributions to the feminist notion of the cultural construction of
gender’ (Lutkehaus, 1995: 8). Mead’s message about the ways that different cultures convert the biological facts of sex into highly disparate expressions of gender
was liberating for many women (Worsley, 1957: 124).
Many other scholars, especially feminist scholars, have also focused on the cultural construction of gender. Following Mead, Simone de Beauvoir (1949) dismissed biological determinism as underpinning gender – indeed she attacked it to
the point of arguing that feminism ought to transcend issues of sexuality and motherhood. Marcus (2005) discusses further differences between French and US feminisms. Building on Ortner’s (1972) lead, Ortner and Whitehead’s (1981) anthology
was among the first to identify in a systematic way the cultural and social processes
to which culturally variable notions of sex and gender are related, although Rosaldo
and Lamphere (1974) published the first important gender reader. In further demarcating sex from culturally constructed gender, Rubin’s (1984: 308) powerful call
for a conceptual splitting of gender and sex stressed that, ‘Gender affects the operation of the sexual system . . . But although sex and gender are related, they are not
the same thing, and they form the basis of two distinct areas of social practice.’
Rubin (1984: 308) further noted: ‘[I]t is essential to separate gender and sexuality
analytically to more accurately reflect their separate social existence.’
The popularity of notions of cultural construction continued developing,
reflected in the growing number of publications on the matter (e.g. Devor, 1989;

18

Contextualizing gender

Kessler and McKenna, 1978; Segal, 1987; Shapiro, 1991). Wittig (1992: 9) gave
one of the more extreme accounts of the construction of gender arguing that
women’s minds and bodies are the products of patriarchal manipulation and that
these deformed bodies are then called natural. For Wittig, there is nothing natural
about biological sex, rather our bodies are culturally produced and as such there is
no link between sex and gender because there is no natural sex. However, from the
1980s, some scholars such as Yanagisako and Collier (1987) began to critique the
sex and gender distinction, suggesting that it may reflect Western culture rather
than be a universally useful analytical device. Haraway (1988: 592) also noted
nervousness about the sex/gender distinction.
From the late 1970s sexuality slowly started to be theorized and interrogated in
its own right. Foucault (1978, 1985, 1988) began dismantling sexual orthodoxies
by arguing that sexual identities are analytically separate from gender identities,
work that was continued by theorists such as Chauncey (1982–3) and Eve
Kosofsky Sedgwick (1990).
From the 1990s ever more complex theories of gender and sexuality developed,
stemming often from a feminist base. There was also a growing pool of studies
about femininities and masculinities (e.g. Chodorow, 1994; Connell, 1995;
Halberstam, 1998). An index of the shift towards more intricate theories of gender
can be found in feminist work on motherhood. While de Beauvoir saw maternal
biology as dragging women down, as a real obstacle to women’s liberation (Parker,
2001c), motherhood has become acknowledged as a worthy area of academic attention and a plethora of feminist books and articles have appeared on the topic (e.g.
Earle and Letherby, 2003; O’Reilly, 2004; O’Reilly and Abbey, 2000; Parker,
2001c).
The development of queer theory, attributed in large part to a surprised Judith
Butler (Osborne and Segal, 1994), although arguably coined by Teresa de Lauretis
(1991), facilitated the production of increasingly sophisticated theories. One of the
most significant theories of gender to emerge stemmed from notions of performance and performativity, the latter being a term initially used by Austin (1955) to
refer to the process of repetitive enactments or performances that create and construct identity. While West and Zimmerman (1987) gave a forceful early account of
gender as a routine accomplishment embedded in everyday interaction, arguably
the most influential theorist in respect to performativity has been Judith Butler
(1990, 1993), even though as Prosser (1998: 27) points out, performativity is articulated only in the last of four sections in the final chapter of Butler’s Gender
Trouble (1990).
As influential as her arguments have been many of Butler’s propositions have
received criticism. One of the most sustained critiques of Butler’s work has been
that it undermines the materiality of the body. While she does not ignore the body,
nor divorce it from the performance, Butler’s work has often been interpreted as
implying that the body, above all, is habituated to performing gender. For instance,
Butler (1993: xi) writes that ‘bodies only appear, only endure, only live within the
productive constraints of certain highly gendered regulatory schemas.’ While
Butler responded to criticism that she undermines the body by publishing Bodies

Contextualizing gender 19
That Matter (1993), in which she affirmed that she does not dismiss the body or
feelings attached to it, the implication that bodily attachments are not innate proved
a rallying point for many activists and theorists.
Partly in response to the work of Butler, there has been somewhat of a reemphasis of biologically grounded studies of gender and sexuality (e.g. M. Hines, 2004).
One boost in the essentialism debate was the apparent discovery in the 1990s of the
‘gay gene.’ Rosario (2004: 281) notes that subsequently in his psychiatric practice
he regularly heard genetic-based explanations affirming the subject positions of his
gay and lesbian clients. Additionally, Rosario (2004: 283) reveals that transsexual
and intersex activists ‘have increasingly wanted to reverse the polarities of the
sex/gender distinction, arguing that the material forces that shape sex also determine gender.’
This move towards biologically grounded studies of gender and sexuality has
been particularly influenced by trans scholars who show the very real investment
individuals have in their bodies (e.g. Cromwell, 1999; Feinberg, 1998; Green,
2004; Prosser, 1998; Rubin, 2003). Prosser’s (1998) work, for example, reveals the
tangible and poignant ways gender maps onto people’s bodies, affirming the materiality of the body and asserting that sex is inescapable and gender is irreducible to
a construction independent of bodily investments. Prosser (1998) further argues
that Butler does not deal with transgender sexed embodiment. Monro (2005) also
advocates that attention be given to the acknowledgment of an essential self. While
an uncritical embrace of gender essentialism is argued against, the challenges transsexual and transgender critics level at anti-essentialism show the force of gender
and the overwhelming need for a bodily mooring (Love, 2004: 260).
In trying to account for this often uneasy mix of construction and essentialism a
number of scholars draw on arguments from a range of discourses. For Ramet
(1996: 2), there is no inherent requirement that a social constructionist deny the
existence of innate psychological differences between the sexes. Additionally,
Fuss (1989: xii) notes that perhaps ‘there is no essence to essentialism’ and ‘constructionism really operates as a more sophisticated form of essentialism.’ Instead
of a search for single origins, Scott (1986: 1067) asserts that we have to conceive of
processes so interconnected that they cannot be disentangled and Monro (2005)
calls for a gender pluralist theory to account for both the essential and constructed
nature of gender.
A particularly helpful and nuanced account of gender and the body, which tackles notions of interconnection, is found in the work of Salamon (2004, 2006).
Drawing on a variety of theorists, Salamon makes the argument that there cannot be
a body that precedes and gives rise to an idea about the body because the idea of the
body emerges simultaneously with the phenomenologically accessible body. For
Salamon (2004: 119), what Freud and Lacan, as well as Anzieu (1989), Butler
(1993), Schilder (1950), and Silverman (1996) all suggest is that ‘bodily assumption, and hence subject formation itself, is a constant and complex oscillation
between narcissistic investment in one’s own flesh and the “necessary self-division
and self-estrangement” (to borrow a phrase from Butler) that is the very means by
which our bodies are articulated.’ Indeed, some trans scholars, such as Susan

20

Contextualizing gender

Stryker (1998: 147), note the power of performativity, arguing that transgender
phenomena ‘disrupt and denaturalize Western modernity’s “normal” reality,
specifically the fiction of a unitary psychological gender that is rooted biologically
in corporeal substance’. Moreover, for Stryker (1998: 147), transgender phenomena ‘provide a site for grappling with the problematic relation between the principles of performativity and a materiality that, while inescapable, defies stable
representation, particularly as experienced by embodied subjects’. In fleshing out
how the body is experienced and ways in which notions of the body intersect in the
formation of gender this chapter now turns from mapping gender theory to look
more closely at bodies and gender in Indonesia.

Corporeal gender
There is an obvious and prominent fact about human beings: they have bodies
and they are bodies.
(Turner, 1984: 1)
If the immutable character of sex is contested, perhaps this construct called
‘sex’ is as culturally constructed as gender; indeed perhaps it was always
already gender, with the consequence that the distinction between sex and gender turns out to be no distinction at all.
(Butler, 1990: 7)
Turner and Butler’s respective comments emphasize the culturally symbiotic manner in which sex and gender operate. Moreover, it is noted that while all humans
have bodies, the meanings attached to them, and the way they are incorporated
into the gender system, vary according to the society (cf. Laqueur, 1990). In what
follows I illuminate relationships between gender and bodies in Indonesia, with
particular emphasis on Bugis South Sulawesi, through comparison with understandings of ways bodies are culturally inscribed with meanings in other societies
and the theories developed to conceptualize these latter understandings.
For people in Bugis South Sulawesi, as for Indonesia more generally, the body is
of obvious importance in relation to gender formation. At birth, much is made of the
biological sex of the baby, which is determined by genitalia ( jenis kelamin).
Genitalia signal the potential role an individual will play in reproduction and form
the basis of gender possibilities and limitations. For instance, as females, women
are seen as able, and they are expected to, bear children. Because of this physiological fact, it is generally believed that a baby boy can never become a woman precisely because he is not female.
Indeed, people in Indonesia often talk of a clearly defined and permanent male or
female body that determines aspects of social life. For Eri, a calalai in hir 20s, no
matter how much s/he presents hirself as a man, hir female body can never be overcome. Eri usually dresses in long trousers and a collared shirt and keeps hir hair
short and shaved at the back and sides. Eri is regularly taken to be a man and people
address hir as Mas (Mr), a title s/he is especially pleased about if s/he is in the

Contextualizing gender 21
company of a girlfriend. While Eri now works as a DJ in the city of Makassar, s/he
grew up in a strictly Muslim rural area where s/he was required to regularly pray at
the mosque. When I asked whether s/he prays with the women or with the men
when s/he goes to the mosque, Eri replied, ‘What do you think! With the women of
course, I am [biologically] a woman after all!’
Another informant, named Rani, is unofficially married to a woman and
together they have adopted a child. When asked about praying at the mosque, Rani
responded: ‘Whenever we go and pray, even if all day I’ve been in the rice fields
working [alongside men], when we go to the mosque I have to pray as a woman. If
I don’t, God won’t recognize me and won’t hear my prayers.’ Within the cultural
context in which Rani lives, because s/he is female s/he must therefore pray as a
woman, alongside women. The confluence of national ideology and Islamic norms
are clearly seen in both Rani and Eri’s statements. The physical body is of utmost
importance and cannot be superseded by quotidian practices.
While biological sex is seen as essentially unalterable, some individuals nevertheless seek to modify their bodies. For instance, Yulia, a middle-aged calabai who
arranges weddings in the town of Sengkang, has considered surgery to feminize hir
body. S/he acknowledges, however, the permanency of hir sex:
But you know, no matter how much silicon I get pumped into me, I will always
be betrayed by this [points to hir Adam’s apple]. We [calabai] can get breast
implants, we can get our penis cut off and a hole made, but we can never get rid
of this . . . because if we did we wouldn’t be able to talk.
(Yulia)
Some individuals experience such feelings of incongruence between their bodies
and their sense of self as being trapped in the wrong body. In respect to Indonesia,
Murray (1999) suggests that it is common for young women socialized into a rigid
heterosexual regime to experience their sexual feelings in terms of gender confusion: ‘[I]f I am attracted to women then I must be a man trapped in a woman’s
body.’ Schleifer (2006) notes that this feeling relies on a two-sex model and presupposes the possibility of changing sex. As Schleifer (2006) found in his research
in North America, for instance, gay female-to-male individuals sense their body
very differently to their gender; although some individuals do acknowledge being
born female and the continuity of self. There is a good deal of literature on the topic
of being trapped in the wrong body and desires to change it (e.g. Bolin, 1994;
Wilson, 2002). Yet while individuals may feel trapped, they do not all necessarily
wish to pass as the other gender, and as Stone (1991) reveals, some male-to-female
transsexuals reject traditional images of femininity. Furthermore, as Heyes (2003:
1098) asserts in critical response to Hausman (1995), it is not only trans subjects
that can feel trapped in the wrong body. Heyes (2007) notes anyone can feel such,
wanting a thinner, more nubile, more robust body, for example.
Not everyone experiences gender dysphoria in terms of being trapped in the
wrong body, however. For example, Don Kulick, who researched travesti (a subjectivity similar to calabai) in Brazil, found, ‘Travesti consider that males are males
and females are females because of the genitals they possess. God made a person

22

Contextualizing gender

male or female . . . what He did can never be undone – one can never change the sex
with which one was born’ (1998: 193). Although travesti think in this way, Kulick
reveals they also acknowledge that, ‘even though God made a person irreversibly
male or female by installing a particular set of genitalia, the different morphology
of those genitalia allows for different gendered possibilities to be explored and
occupied’ (1998: 193).
In a comparable way, many calabai acknowledge that they have a male body and
that God intended them to have a male body. As a result it is not possible to feel
caught in the wrong body. Indeed I heard people, both calabai and non-calabai,
wonder out loud how calabai could be committing a sin when this is how God made
them, with a male body and a calabai constitution. This may explain in part how
some calabai can be very devout Muslims and make the pilgrimage to Mecca.
When calabai make the pilgrimage, though, they are generally required to dress as
men, unless they have had sex-reassignment surgery and then they can go dressed
as women. Furthermore, after a calabai becomes a haji, sexual relationships with
men are deemed particularly sinful. In reality, though, many haji calabai continue
romantic relationships with men and often experience no overt negative sanctions
levelled against them (see Chapter 7). I have not met any calalai who have been on
the hajj, a fact reflecting the lower levels of income available for calalai and showing just one way in which calabai and calalai have different access to resourses and
opportunities.
These accounts suggest that while an individual may take on aspects of another
gender, for many people in Bugis South Sulawesi and Indonesia more generally,
biology is never ignored. Indeed, Boellstorff (2005b: 47) cites a 1936 article about
two Indonesian women wanting to get married. The two women were then taken to
the doctor to be inspected, highlighting the importance of the visible physical body
in ascertaining marriage legitimacy. In Indonesia, the body thus remains fundamental to one’s notion of self and as such a female cannot become a man because a
man is necessarily male, and vice versa. Indeed, there are interesting parallels here
with issues that Wilchins (1997: 42–3) reveals have arisen among some lesbian
groups in the USA where the latter refused to welcome male-to-female transgendered people because the latter were considered to be incapable of ever becoming
‘true women.’
In Indonesia, the centrality of the body in gender formation thus does not reflect
the argument of some social construction theorists that it is exactly with the transgendered category that the division of biological sex and cultural gender becomes
evident (e.g. Bolin, 1994; Cromwell, 1997; Shapiro, 1991; Stone, 1991; cf.
Wieringa and Blackwood, 1999: 17). The idea that biology can be fundamentally
separated from gender is implicit in many Western notions of the sexed body and
this thinking has underpinned Western feminist theory. However, this is just one
permutation of the sex/gender relationship and even within Western theory there is
increasing interrogation of the intricate relationships between sex and gender.
Initial readings of Butler’s work on gender and the body may not seem to easily
allow for recognition of the importance of the body in notions of gender in
Indonesia. While Butler (1993: xi) recognizes that there must be ‘some kind of

Contextualizing gender 23
necessity’ that accompanies bodily functions (e.g. age, illness, feelings of pleasure), bodies only become visible within gendered regulatory schemas. It is these
schemas that produce the ‘domain of intelligible bodies.’ Butler (1993: xi) further
argues that we need these schemas because the body does not make sense on its
own: ‘[T]o claim that sex is already gendered, already constructed, is not yet to
explain in which way the “materiality” of sex is forcibly produced.’ Because she
disputes the physical basis of the materiality of sex, ‘Butler cannot escape the
impression that she sees a person’s gender identity as almost an artificial and dispensable phenomenon’ (Wieringa and Blackwood, 1999: 14). Yet it is Butler’s
very incitement of bodies being meaningless outside a gendered matrix that facilitates an exploration of Indonesian notions of the sex/gender relationship. Instead of
denying bodily materiality, Butler argues that when we claim that bodies are material, the content of that claim remains vague and unclear until we question what that
materiality means and what interpretive matrices condition, enable, and limit affirmation (cf. Salamon, 2004). It is only within the Indonesian regulatory schema of
gender that Indonesian bodies thus become knowable.
Part of the reason that the physical body alone does not determine gender in Bugis
South Sulawesi is because of the particular understandings of the body. While two
primary forms of the body are generally acknowledged – male and female, and this
was clearly articulated earlier by Eri, Rani and Yulia – physical sexes are not necessarily thought of as opposites. Some scholars have suggested a multiple sex paradigm for understanding such notions of the sexed body. For example, Martin and
Voorhies (1975: 86) posit that ‘physical sex differences need not necessarily be
perceived as bipolar.’ Fausto-Sterling (2000) also discusses the lack of a clear
male–female divide among individuals. In a similar vein, Grosz argues that the
theory of sexual dimorphism is too simplistic to account for all understandings of
the body. Instead of being at opposite ends, Grosz (1991: 30) suggests that bodies
may be seen on a continuum, exhibiting varying mixtures of female and male physical attributes. Indeed, Pak Hidya, a respected Bugis man, believes just this:
Real women are here [he draws a line pointing to one end] and real men are
here [pointing to the other]. And then you have calalai, calabai and bissu
spread out along this line. Because they aren’t at the ends [of the spectrum]
they have different natures (sifat).
(Pak Hidya)
For Pak Hidya, while Rani is female and Yulia is male, their respective positions on
the spectrum mean that they have different constitutions to women and men.
Researchers focusing on other regions have noted similar conceptualizations.
Meyerowitz (2002), for instance, reveals moves in the USA from polar conceptions
of sex to a scalar conception that recognizes that both males and females have
testosterone and oestrogen. In a similar way, Kessler (1998) writes of the wide
range of intersex conditions that challenge the notion of just two sexes, calling
for a broader view of sex that recognizes intermediate states. Monro (2005) also
outlines notions of a gender spectrum model, while Jackson (2000a) provides
comparative spectral insights into Thai understandings of the body.

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Contextualizing gender

Rather than viewing gender along a continuum like Pak Hidya, other Bugis
informants reveal that the body may be more accurately expressed as complementary configurations of female and male, echoing Meyerowitz and Kessler above.
According to Pak Rudin, an Islamic leader:
Calalai have an x-factor (faktor-x). It’s a physiology (fisiologi) thing. While
their sex organ (kelamin) is female, inside they are not like other women. They
are different. They have some male aspects.
(Pak Rudin)
Similarly, Puang Nasah, a Bugis man of noble descent, notes:
Calabai are not men (bukan laki-laki) but their sex organ (kelamin) is male . . .
they have a different genetic make-up. I don’t know what men are, maybe XY
[Puang Nasah draws here on his knowledge of human chromosomes]? Well, if
so, calabai are XXY. But then some may be more woman than man, and then
they would be XYY.
(Puang Nasah)
Such conceptualizations facilitate understanding various compositions of the body,
including intersexuality. Bissu shamans, for example, are often considered perfect
embodiments of female and male elements. It is this combination that underscores
bissu potency (cf. Errington, 1989: 12). While bissu may physically seem male, the
above understandings of the sexed body mean that bissu can appear male yet comprise
female elements, a proposition that possibly destabilizes clear notions of what constitutes male and female in Bugis South Sulawesi, rendering problematic the labelling of
bissu as male. Here again the work of Butler proves useful in working through Bugis
notions of the sexed body. Butler (1990: 6) argues that if gender is the cultural meanings that the sexed body assumes, then gender cannot be said to follow from a sex in
any one way. In effect, man and masculine can be signified as male by a female
body, and vice versa (cf. Cromwell, 1999: 33). While bissu may appear male, cultural
meanings attached to gender and bodies enable consideration of bissu as beings that
merge male and female attributes, showing how culture creates somatic facts.
In many ways this discourse of combined female and male embodiment is fundamental to Bugis notions of the body. If complementary elements are considered to
constitute the body, individual compositions can differ. While Minangkabau society
recognizes two sexes that produce two genders (Blackwood, 1998), for many Bugis
varying degrees of femaleness and maleness are contained within one individual, thus
conditioning thoughts on gender. As a result of this thinking, the notion of being
caught in the wrong body does not helpfully extrapolate gender variance in Bugis
South Sulawesi. A male who shows signs of femininity is therefore not necessarily
considered, nor considers hirself, a woman trapped in the wrong body. Instead, an
individual’s gender configuration could mean s/he is calabai (cf. Idrus, 2006).
This section on gender and bodies makes two central points. While assumptions
that gender is grounded solely in biological sex (e.g. that a female necessarily

Contextualizing gender 25
becomes a woman) need to be suspended, an appreciation of the body as a fundamental factor in Bugis gender formation (e.g. a male will never become a woman)
is important. Understandings of gender thus differ in Bugis South Sulawesi from
understandings of gender in India, for example, where Nanda (1994: 381) found,
‘The term hijra also collapses the two different analytical categories of sex and gender; the Western social scientific distinction between these two terms is not part of
Indian discourse.’ Rather, in understandings of gender in Bugis South Sulawesi a
move away from biological models, which unproblematically conflate biological,
psychological, and social categories of sex, gender, and sexual behaviour, needs to
take place (cf. Paul, 1993). While gender, biological sex, and sexuality are self-referential categories, as Boellstorff (2005b: 11) points out: ‘The danger lies not in
conceptually separating cultural domains, but in ontologizing such separations so
that the foundationally intersectional character of social life, and social inequality,
becomes obscured.’ Second, while two fundamental bodies are recognized, female
and male, they are not inherently conceptualized as opposites in Bugis South
Sulawesi and instead bodies are often seen as particular configurations of maleness
and femaleness, an interpretation that allows nuanced appreciation of the ways in
which embodiment interacts with gender.

Desiring gender
Until around the 1980s, sexuality was not considered by theorists to be an important factor in the study of individual identity, nor a legitimate area of research.
Vance (1991: 875) records that this position laid suspicion not only on research outputs but also on the motivation and character of the researcher (cf. Tuzin, 1991).
Evans-Pritchard (1970), for instance, published his article on sexual inversion
among Azande, which observed female same-sex relations, 40 years after his field
work. Likewise, van Lier (1986), who was interested in female same-sex relations
in Surinam, discontinued his interviews with women when he found out colleagues
frowned on the topic. It would be another 40 years before his work was published
(cited in Blackwood and Wieringa, 1999b: 40). Saskia Wieringa (1999: 209) used
a pseudonym when publishing short stories on her encounters with lesbians in
Jakarta and Lima in part because of the anti-lesbian attitudes prevalent in her institute. Jeffery Weeks also reveals:
I was once warned by a well-meaning head of department that my academic
career would go nowhere if I continued to write about sex [then the tragedy of
the AIDS epidemic made it socially necessary] to research and write about sexuality in a serious manner.
(1999: 11)
The growth of material on sexuality shows the various ways societies view the
connection between gender and sexuality (cf. Caplan, 1987), and the array of
ways in which sexuality is theorized. While the work of Western sexologists and
psychoanalysts in the late 1800s and early 1900s grouped homosexuality and

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Contextualizing gender

transgenderism together under the rubric of gender inversion, particularly from the
1980s increasingly refined theories came into circulation. An important approach
taken by many scholars has been that of demarcating gender, sex, and sexuality,
which Rich’s (1980) notion of a ‘lesbian continuum’ and Rubin’s (1984) ‘sexgender system,’ combined with the work of Foucault, provided the tools for undertaking. These approaches were also employed to highlight that while women faced
oppression, lesbians were additionally constrained because of their sexuality.
Jagose and Kulick (2004: 211) note that many of the central debates and conceptual overhauls that have animated (Western-based) lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and queer studies over the last ten years have concerned establishing the
proper relations between gender and sexuality. Schleifer (2006: 58) records that for
his participants, gay female-to-male transgenderists in North America, ‘sex, gender, and sexuality emerge as real and distinct means by which individuals make
sense of themselves and others,’ and these categories serve to ‘mutually constitute
each other and they function only in relation to each other.’ Distinctions are drawn
but Schleifer concludes that ‘the veracity of these distinctions is limited given their
inextricability in the contiguous terrain of actual human lives.’ While Butler (1993:
15) argues that ‘gender performativity cannot be theorized apart from the forcible
and reiterative practice of regulatory sexual regimes,’ Schleifer (2006: 68) argues
that the inverse of Butler’s argument is also true: ‘[S]exuality is crucial to establishing gender and sex, even as gender and sex are constituted through sexual
interactions.’
For David Valentine (2004), while categories need to be created as tools to
apprehend experience, there are dangers that these categories become seen as valid
descriptions of experience. One particular concern Valentine (2004: 217) raises is
the ‘recent tendency to claim, as empirical fact, that gender and sexuality are separate and separable experiences’. While acknowledging that analytic separation
between gender and sexuality has helped in the analysis of queer and nonnormative identities and experiences, and moreover that the split does indeed
describe some contemporary identities well – for instance, Iran supports sex change
operations but not homosexuality (Vossoughian and Esmaeli, 2006) – it is only one
available model; the distinction between gender and sexuality does not describe
everyone’s experiences. Valentine’s (2007) new book further engages this issue,
looking at how the transgender paradigm fuses gender and sexuality as distinct
arenas of human understanding and erases the experiences of some gender-variant
people – particularly poor persons of colour – who conceive of gender and sexuality in other terms.
While Boellstorff (2007b: 25–6) sees the relationship between sexuality and
gender as a pivotal issue, he notes that these concepts are never completely fused or
separated. He thus asks how this relationship impacts understanding cultural logics
of embodiment, desire, and intersubjectivity. Boellstorff posits that we can ethnographically un-ask, rather than theoretical solve, the question of the relationship
between sexuality and gender by showing their co-constitution in historically
and culturally specific life worlds. For Boellstorff (2007b: 27), theorizing and
ethnographically investigating the imbrication of sexuality and gender remains a

Contextualizing gender 27
foundational challenge for anthropological inquiry. He also notes that it is fruitful
to look at what the relationship does rather than what it means and how gender and
sexuality, as lived categories and analytic approaches, help constitute the other
while remaining distinct.
Arlene Stein (2004) further reflects on the relationship of gender to sexuality by
way of examining her teaching of the sociology of sexuality over the past 15 years.
Through analysing her syllabi, Stein found that sometimes she explored gender and
sexuality together, emphasizing their similarities and points of overlap, while at
other times she split them apart, emphasizing their differences. When Stein moved
from teaching women’s studies courses and courses that focused on gender and
sexuality towards courses that focused on the sociology of homosexuality she
found that it was rewarding to have men in the class and to be able to provide a safe
space for lesbians and gay men to discuss issues of importance to them. However,
she also found that straight students and students with ambiguous sexual identities
felt less empowered to speak and that many students without investment in gay and
lesbian issues shied away from the course. In focusing on homosexuality over and
above gender, Stein (2004: 255) found that the course inadvertently reproduced
heteronormativity. By the late 1990s there was growing criticism of the gender/sexuality divide and deployment of terms such as gender performativity, butch/femme
gender, female masculinity, and transgender subjectivities fostered nuanced explorations of the relationships between gender, sex and sexuality (Jagose and Kulick,
2004: 211). Indeed, Judith Butler is against the notion that the analysis of gender
and sexuality can be radically separated (cited in Osborne and Segal, 1994: 32).
With the increasing contributions of transgendered people, and the sustained development of queer theories, all kinds of sexual and gender categories were problematized. As such, by 2000 Stein (2004: 256) found she needed to analyse gender and
sexuality as both separate and related categories.
While there is now a wide array of ethnographic studies of gender and sexuality
(e.g. Boellstorff, 2005b; Kulick, 1998; Manalansan, 2003; Reddy, 2005; Sinnott,
2004), Jagose and Kulick (2004) note that more ethnography is needed and that it
must engage in thinking about the place of gender in current understandings of sexuality and how sexuality is conceived in relation to the category of gender. Heeding
this call, this section uses ethnographic material to explore intricacies in relationships between gender and sexuality in Indonesia with a primary focus on Bugis
South Sulawesi. As an initial reference point the use of the term sexuality here
refers to erotic desire, who individuals have sex with, and the roles they may play
in sexual encounters – see Jolly and Manderson (1997: 24) for a call to think about
the ontological status of ‘sexuality’ in cross-cultural settings and Marcus (2005:
205) to see how queer studies has expanded definitions of what counts as sexuality.
In Indonesia, gender and sexuality tend to be tightly interwoven in cultural imaginings. This is not to say, however, that sexuality and gender cannot be differentiated; as Boellstorff (2005b) makes clear, many homosexuals in Indonesia are not
transgendered and appear as normatively gendered men and women. One permutation of the link between gender and sexuality is seen in narratives asserting that sexual awakening induces the development of an individual’s gender identity thereby

28

Contextualizing gender

justifying certain forms of behaviour (cf. Oetomo, 1996). Conversely, types of
behaviour may convince someone of their sexuality.
The influential nature of sexuality in Bugis gender formation is seen in the
following two narratives given by calabai now aged in their 40s:
I feel like I’ve always known that I was calabai, but for a long time it was a feeling I couldn’t explain. I knew definitely in 1983 [at the age of 20] because this
was when my parents arranged my marriage to my first cousin, a girl from
Boné. But before the marriage went ahead, a number of boys came up to me
and said I should try it with them to make sure. They said, ‘try me first.’ I said
ok. I was a little scared though, but as it happened I really liked it. It was good!
So then I knew that I couldn’t marry this girl. [What do you mean by ‘try it’?]
You know, be penetrated (ditembuskan). And you know what? It felt good
(enak) and then I got this illness (penyakit)! [Chuckle.] Then I had to run away
and get away from my hometown of Sengkang. So I became a traveller (passompe’, B). My family is part of the nobility (bangsawan), and the shame
(siri’, B) was very great. Before this I had some idea about being calabai, but
not really. Like when I was at school I played with the girls. Girls used to come
to my house and my parents thought they were my girlfriends! I guess at this
stage I kind of felt like both a girl and a boy, but also not really like either. I
wasn’t aware (sadar) of any sexual feelings at that time. [Do you think there
was an outside influence in your becoming calabai? Like did your parents
influence you or did you hang around other calabai?] No, there was no other
influence. It was just these feelings. . . .
(Yulia)
When I kissed my girlfriend it felt like kissing a sister. It was just plain. I
always admired men more you know, but just to look at. I was arranged to be
married [to a woman] but I really didn’t want to. I kissed a guy, you know, to
see what it felt like. Delicious (enak)! And then I knew that I wanted to be with
men; to be like a wife.
(Yanti)
Sexual fulfilment guided Yulia and Yanti’s respective assumptions of a calabai
subject position. In hir narrative, Yulia used the term penyakit in reference to the
development of same-sex desire. The use of the terms penyakit (illness) and sakit
(ill) are commonly heard in calabai and calalai narratives when referring to the
point when same-sex sexual relations began. Like being inflicted with an illness,
same-sex sexual desire is often thought of as something unplanned and undesirable,
and which may have no cure (Idrus, 2006; cf. Boellstorff, 2005b: 93–4; Howard,
1996). Notions of penyakit and sakit are explored further in later chapters, especially Chapters 6 and 7. Calalai also talk about sexuality as impacting gender formation, as Eri, a DJ in the capital city of South Sulawesi, Makassar, notes:
You know, the most important factor in me identifying as calalai was influence
from a lines [a feminine woman who is attracted to calalai]. You see, I was
chosen and seduced by a lines over a long time, and this is what made me

Contextualizing gender 29
become sakit. Before, I wasn’t sakit, I used to just act like a man (dulu saya tidak
sakit, cuma gaya seperti lelaki). Then there was a lines who always approached
me and wanted to be partners (pacaran). At first, when we became friends, I
didn’t think about sex. The lines kept paying me lots of attention, but I was still
scared because I still had feelings like a woman. I was still 16 then. But I was
from a broken home and I really enjoyed all the attention I was getting. So
finally I too became sakit (saya ikut sakit) and became a hunter (calalai).
(Eri)
Eri’s masculine behaviour extended to hir attraction and relationship with a lines.
However, since Eri initially continued to have feelings like a woman (e.g. s/he was
still sexually attracted to men) s/he did not consider this progression an inevitable
sequence. Similarly, a man named Abdul felt himself to be very feminine and was
attracted to what he perceived as feminine tastes and behaviours. As Abdul suspected he was calabai he went to live with a group of calabai to see if this was his
destiny. While Abdul enjoyed what he refers to as a calabai lifestyle, he was not
sexually attracted to men and cites this as a deciding factor in him not being calabai.
For Dilah, a calalai in hir 30s, it was attraction to a woman that initiated hir formation of a masculine calalai identity:
I met a girl who was married to a violent man who beat her all the time and never
satisfied her [sexually] in bed. We became friends and I guess we started testing.
At first she was scared and didn’t know if it was appropriate (cocok), but finally
we let go and ‘became one body’ (bersetubuh, a term for making love). We were
both satisfied (puas) and we became partners because we were cocok.
(Dilah)
Being suitable with a woman encouraged Dilah to enact a type of masculinity (cf.
Newton, 1984). This behaviour further established hir identity as calalai. Indeed,
erotic choice tends to dictate behaviour and being sexually intimate with a woman
often compels calalai to assume masculine behaviours. As such, while in West
Sumatra, Blackwood (1998) found herself slotted into a gender identity rather than
the sexual identity she thought she occupied. Wieringa (1999) similarly found that
when she was living in Jakarta her desire for women was not interpreted merely as
erotic preference, but underscored, in the eyes of people around her, her entire gender identity (cf. Jackson, 1997: 168, 2000a: 417; A. Murray, 1995).
The link between gender and sexuality is certainly evident in Bugis South
Sulawesi. The Mayor of Sengkang once said at a public gathering, ‘Indeed you
would not be waria (calabai) if you did not like men’ (Memang bukan waria kalau
tidak suka sama pria). Without a desire for men, calabai are often considered not to
be calabai. Indeed, a calabai who desires women may be considered a false calabai,
as Haji Mappaganti, a devoutly religious calabai, reveals:
Some calabai like women, but they’re not real calabai. Real calabai never like
women. I am an authentic calabai (asli calabai) because I’ve never liked women.
(Haji Mappaganti)

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Contextualizing gender

Comments are often made about asli calabai, forced to get married to women, who
have to ‘play with a man’ (main sama lelaki) in order to become aroused enough to
consummate a marriage. I was told by one informant, Andi Bari, of the important
past role calabai played in helping consummate royal weddings:
There were rajas that had to get married because they were rajas. But in order
to get erect (konak, from kontol nakal, naughty penis) they had to be stimulated
by calabai because women didn’t turn them on. What would happen is that a
calabai would lie under the royal bed and excite the raja and tell him what to do.
(Andi Bari)
Haji Mappaganti further reveals below how important sexuality can be in confirming gender identity:
There are lots of types of calabai. There are those whose grooming (dandan) is
like that of women and they are attracted to men. These people are asli calabai.
But sometimes their dandan is that of a man, but s/he likes men. S/he is still calabai. Perhaps s/he was forbidden to dress like a woman by hir parents. Look at
me, for example. When I finished SMA (high school), my dandan was like a
woman, but my parents desperately wanted me to marry. But I just couldn’t, so
I ran away to Java. After some time, my parents sent me a letter saying,
‘Whatever your wish, the important thing is that you come home’ (Apapun
kemauan kamu, yang penting kamu pulang). So I came home. I came home from
Tana Suci (Mecca) wearing the clothes of a man, but not interested whatsoever
in women. I really do not like women like that. I am asli calabai. I like men.
(Haji Mappaganti)
In addition to the importance of sexual desire in confirming gender identity, the roles
one plays in sexual acts can contribute to gender. For instance, Unni Wikan (1977:
309), who studied gender in Oman, argues that there, ‘It is the sexual act, not the sexual organ, which is fundamentally constitutive of gender. A man who acts as a woman
sexually, is a woman, socially’ and, as such, ‘the man who enters into a homosexual
relationship in the active role, in no way endangers his male identity, whereas the passive, receiving homosexual partner cannot possibly be conceptualized as a man.’ Don
Kulick (1997, 1998) arrives at similar conclusions and argues that in Brazil it is sexuality, or, more specifically, the sexual act, that determines one’s gender identity.
Kulick (1997: 574) asserts that in Brazil it is the males who are anally penetrated who
are usually ‘classified and named, not the males who penetrate them (who are often
simply called “men”).’ Kulick is thus able to divide Brazilian society into men and
not-men according to whether individuals engage in active/penetrative sex (which
men do), or passive/receiving sex (which not-men do, i.e. travesti and women).
Johnson (1997: 91–3) found comparative conceptualizations in the Philippines, as
did Sinnott (2004) in Thailand. In Bugis South Sulawesi the roles an individual
assumes in sexual encounters are also a consideration in gender formation.
For Dilah, a calalai in hir 30s, women are sexually penetrated, and one way s/he
separates hirself from hir partner is by being the one who penetrates, not the

Contextualizing gender 31
penetrated. Dilah notes, ‘We don’t want to be penetrated. It’s like our role to penetrate our partners. You know, that’s how it works.’ Eka, a calabai, similarly asserts,
‘Calabai are entered (dimasuki). Men are never entered. No!’ Yulia, also a calabai,
affirms this by saying, ‘No, [my male partner] doesn’t want it like that [to be penetrated]. He just wants to enter me. If I entered him, that would be called lesbian, that
would (itu namanya lesbian).’ It remains unclear what Yulia means by this reference. Kulick notes that in San Salvador two male transvestites who live together are
called lesbians (pers. comm., cited in Wieringa and Blackwood, 1999: 20). Lesbian
may also be the only term known to describe male–male sex. Boellstorff (2000:
176) reveals that in Indonesia, ‘the abstract notion of lesbi subjectivity is better
known, even in rural areas, than gay male subjectivity (so that gay men have sometimes first identified as lesbi before learning of gay).’ Peter Jackson (pers. comm.,
2004) also comments that the term lesbian may be used to refer disparagingly to
two people of the same category (e.g. of the same gender) in a sexual relationship.
In the above narratives a connection is made between a gendered position and
sexual behaviour. Yet in Bugis South Sulawesi sexual roles do not always influence
gender. Indeed, in Makassar men are increasingly requesting to be penetrated by
calabai – see Kulick (1997) for similar findings in Brazil and Prieur (1998: 203) for
Mexico. Takrim, a man in his 30s, reveals for South Sulawesi:
Something very interesting is happening. Increasingly, men do not want to
fuck (bo’ol) calabai or be sucked by calabai, but to be fucked (dibo’ol) by calabai or to suck calabai until the calabai cum (keluar) in their mouth.
(Takrim)
Being sexually penetrated does not necessarily result in a male no longer being
thought of as a man in Bugis South Sulawesi because sexuality on its own does not
constitute gender in this cultural context. Moreover, there is no evidence to suggest
that among Bugis sexuality is so singularly important in identity formation that if
there were a hiatus in sexual activity, biology would then determine gender. For
instance, Haji Baco’ is in his 70s and no longer engages in sexual activity but s/he
is still calabai. Furthermore, one does not need to be sexually active to initiate a
gendered subject position. Eka lays claim to being calabai not through sexual performance, but through other factors such as erotic desire: ‘I’ve never had a
boyfriend but I desire men . . . I will just have to wait, I guess. It’s hard finding a
good man here.’
Sexual potency can be a consideration in a gendered self, though. In South
Sulawesi, a former calabai named Wawal, who fathered a baby girl, told me, ‘I was
therefore proved a man and could no longer be a calabai.’ Yet fathering children in
Bugis South Sulawesi is not usually enough to render one a man and indeed one
informant has fathered children and is still considered calabai. There is, then, flexibility in the relationship between sexuality and gender.
While there have been substantial developments in the analysis of the intersections of gender and sexuality, as the opening paragraphs showed, more theoretical
work needs to be undertaken. As Jackson argues:

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Contextualizing gender
The theoretical split between gender and sexuality, which is now institutionalized in the disciplinary divide between feminism/women’s studies and gayqueer studies, means that Western analysts are poorly equipped to understand
gender/sex transformations at the global level.
(2000a: 418)

An example of the analytical spilt between gender and sexuality can be seen in
funding for AIDS research, which is often directed around the categories ‘gay’ and
‘transgender’; ‘transgender’ identities are seen to flow from the experiences of
‘gender’ that are different from the ‘sexual’ identity of ‘gay’ (Valentine, 2004:
218). As such, butches are considered to have sources of identity that are ontologically distinct (residing in their ‘gender’) from those of their femme partners whose
identities reside in their ‘sexuality.’ The work of Alison Eves (2004) on lesbian
genders is, however, one example of work focused on removing femme from a
specifically sexualized identity.
In order to appreciate gender in Bugis South Sulawesi, gender and sexuality need
to be considered in their relatedness rather than just their specific distinctiveness
(cf. Jackson, 2000a: 418, 420). This section has shown how assumptions of a split
between gender and sexuality are not necessarily held by Bugis. Instead this section
has looked at ways in which sexuality impacts in various ways on an individual’s
gender. Sexuality may initiate and induce a gendered subject position (for instance,
it was not until Eri became sexually involved with a lines that s/he began identifying as calalai), or sexuality may confirm one’s sense of self (for instance, Yulia
needed to have sex with a man before she knew for sure that s/he was calabai), or
various combinations of these experiences are possible.

Performative gender
In her work with Gerai in Kalimantan, Christine Helliwell (2001) found that
women and men are not seen as necessarily different types of person and there is no
notion of a dimorphic ‘masculinity’ and ‘femininity.’ Rather, Helliwell notes that
men and women are seen as having varying degrees of the same kinds of aptitudes
and proclivities. Men may be seen as valiant and more knowledgeable about local
law, while women are seen as more constant and enduring. Distinctions are made
between women and men, however the foundation whereby individuals are gendered is not derived from the character of their physical body. Instead, gender ‘is
understood as constituted in the differential capacity to perform certain kinds of
work, a capacity assigned long before one’s bodily being takes shape’ (2001: 12).
Occupation, roles, behaviour, and dress contribute to Bugis notions of gender as
well. In this respect the work of Judith Butler and others on performativity is useful. Redeploying the material of linguistic philosopher J. L. Austin (1955), Butler
(1990, 1993) writes of the process of subject formation in terms of performativity,
which she later reframed as citationality (Prosser, 1998: 28), noting that identities
are brought into being by their very enactment rather than the enactment expressing a kind of predetermined essence. The concept of performativity enables the

Contextualizing gender 33
examination of dominant ideologies and the ways individuals emulate, modify, and
resist these prescriptions. Entwined in such discourses are dramaturgical ideas of
acting out a particular role. Performativity is particularly useful in addressing gender in Bugis South Sulawesi as it shows how dominant norms shape gender and
helps explain the way certain roles, occupations, behaviours, and dress contribute
to notions of gender in the region.
In filling out notions of performativity the work of Eves (2004) is particularly
instructive. Drawing on poststructuralist theory and queer theory, Eves develops
the notion of performativity in her application of it to her research on butch and
femme lesbians in the United Kingdom. Specifically employing the notion of habitus (Bourdieu, 1990, 1992), Eves (2004: 489) suggests a way of theorising gender
‘as performative without suggesting that it is voluntaristic, optional and wilful, or
imitative, merely playing roles.’ For Eves, the concept of habitus captures the ways
‘norms are taken on and lived through in an active process that is structured but not
determined, so that performativity is seen as more generative’ (2004: 489–90; cf.
McNay, 2000). In this way subjects can be seen as adopting performativity with its
emphasis on play and subversion without suggesting that the performance is involuntary or mimetic. Eves shows that while older butch and femme women use a
repertoire of essentialism as a defence against claims that their gender is inauthentic, younger butch and femme women are evoking a repertoire of performativity
imbued with notions of subversion and intention to assert their subject positions. In
following Eves’ approach, I explore ways in which roles, behaviour, occupations
and dress contribute to gendered subject positions in Bugis South Sulawesi.
Being calalai is not simply a matter of deciding one is calalai. In affirming hir
subject position, Rani makes sure that the occupations s/he undertakes are considered masculine and not suitable for women. For instance, Rani works alongside
men in the rice fields doing tasks such as ploughing that women are rarely involved
in. Rani has also taken on the roles of husband and father, reinforcing that while
s/he is female-bodied, s/he is not a woman, s/he is calalai.
Gender in Bugis South Sulawesi is also constituted through behaviour. Idi, a 30year-old man, notes: ‘My friend is calabai and s/he was forced to marry a woman,
but s/he is still calabai because of how s/he acts.’ Haji Mulyadi further comments:
Calabai are born with signs (tanda-tanda) of being calabai. Look at Haji
Baco’, when s/he was at school s/he was already showing signs of being calabai. They like to play with girls. They don’t like playing with boys. So their
nature (sifat) has already developed. I guess then it’s a biological (biologis)
thing, but also society has its influence.
(Andi Mulyadi)
Mixing particular men’s and women’s behaviours is a way some individuals affirm
a particular subject position. Jero’, a man in his 30s, remarks:
There are lots of different types of calabai, and not only that, they have many different moods. For instance, a calabai can be walking down the street all, you
know, girlish and giggly, but then if s/he gets hassled s/he will raise hir fists and

34

Contextualizing gender
get ready to fight . . . and if they need to fight to stand up for themselves then they
will. So calabai have a feminine and a masculine side. Indeed, their name is waria,
right, woman along with man (memang namanya waria toh, wanita sama pria).
(Jero’)

As mentioned earlier, waria is an amalgamation of wanita (woman) and pria (man).
Puang Sulai, a noble man, similarly reveals how calabai combine behaviours:
Calabai are amazing (hebat) hey! Like Fitri [a local school teacher], s/he goes
to school wearing trousers and is really strict with all the kids; yells at them and
is pretty mean. Then s/he comes home, takes off hir trousers, puts on a skirt and
make-up and doesn’t yell any more!
(Puang Sulai)
In her work on transgender males in Mexico, Prieur (1998) notes how jota also
play with gender ambiguity. For instance, jota may be giggling, squealing and acting helpless one minute, and then getting involved in arguments with their fists the
next. Prieur reveals that femininity is used by jota in the game of seduction, whereas
masculinity is used in the game of power. Fitri’s actions above parallel this format.
Clothing and accoutrements also contribute to a gendered self in Bugis South
Sulawesi. Ance’, a calalai with a daughter, gives an aesthetic reason for being calalai:
You know the real decider for me [to be calalai]? It was clothes. I hate women’s
clothing, they are so hot and tight and uncomfortable. I never wear baju bodo
(traditional blouse), kebaya (traditional Malay dress), or even duster (a loose
house-dress made from cotton). Yuck!
(Ance’)
Ance’ felt that in order for hir to legitimately wear masculine clothing s/he could no
longer identify as a woman, but rather s/he should be calalai. Bissu Mariani uses
male and female symbols in hir style of dressing to signal hir subject position. On
special occasions Mariani wears the potent (sakti) bissu clothing and adorns hirself
with flowers (a feminine symbol) and a kris (small knife, a masculine symbol).
Calabai such as Santi dress in ways that might be considered by observers from
elsewhere as feminine: short skirts, low-cut tops. However, respectable Bugis
women would never wear such apparel – the exception being women singing in a
band, although even then people in the audience make negative comments about
such attire. By dressing in this way, Santi presents hirself visibly as calabai.
Donham (1998: fn. 1) similarly notes that in Soweto sex/gender categories are
created in part through dress, gesture, and demeanour.
Occupations, roles, behaviour, and dress all contribute to gender in Bugis South
Sulawesi. However, there are dangers linked with emphasizing visible aspects of
gender over other factors. For instance, while wearing particular clothing adds to
gendered positions, on their own clothes do not comprise a gendered subject position. Visible affirmations of gender reveal only part of the picture. This is where the

Contextualizing gender 35
theory of performativity comes to the fore. Performativity allows recognition of the
ways subject positions are brought into being by the very enactment of particular
roles and behaviours. The doing of certain acts, for instance Rani dressing like a
man, ploughing the rice fields, and being a father and husband, creates the gendered
being. As we will see in the next section, aspects of religion and a sense of self also
combine with these factors in Bugis understandings of gender.

Devine and unknowable gender
Many individuals place a great deal of weight on religion, fate, destiny, and what
they feel, and it is necessary to take these aspects into consideration in any analysis
of gender. While some literature emphasizes such influences in gender formation
(e.g. Nanda, 1990: 20; Sinnott, 2004; Whitehead, 1981: 83) and acknowledge the
important role motivation plays in forming a crucial link between personhood and
gender (Chodorow, 1994, 1995; D’Andrade, 1992), other work on gender neglects
the potential of such aspects.
Bugis are frequently cited as having one of the strongest Islamic identities
among Indonesian peoples, and religion generally forms an integral and essential
part of Bugis culture and way of life (Pelras, 1996: 4). When talking of the reasons
for an individual’s particular gender assumption, many people mention fate
(kodrat), destiny (nasib), and God’s will as being influential factors. Indeed, in
writing about the incommensurability of being Muslim in Indonesia and being
homosexual, Boellstorff (2005a: 580) notes how subjecthood in the archipelago is
understood as part of God’s plan. Leena, a devout Muslim who lives in a small
village in South Sulawesi, reveals just this:
Well I’m calalai because of the plan God has for all of us, and that plan is for
me to be calalai. It’s my kodrat and one has to follow it.
(Leena)
In a similar way, Andi Tenri, a high-status middle-aged calabai who lives in rural
South Sulawesi, also attributes hir being calabai to God’s plan:
It’s part of God’s plan, you know, for me to be calabai. It’s my kodrat. At one
point or another, your kodrat must appear (muncul) [i.e. the real you must come
out].
(Andi Tenri)
For Andi Tenri hir kodrat is to be calabai and while s/he may have been able to ignore
it for a while, in the end the real hir had to emerge. In addition to kodrat, nasib (destiny) is also mentioned in numerous narratives. Andu, a young calabai, comments,
‘This is my nasib given to me by God.’ In recognition of Andu’s destiny, Andu’s
mother remarked, ‘We never wished for a calabai child, but what can you do? It’s
God’s will.’ Andu’s mother touches here on the disappointment and concomitant resignation many parents feel when they learn of their child’s gendered position. Andi
Tenri’s friend, Andi Enni reiterates similar sentiments of kodrat and resignation:

36

Contextualizing gender
I came to be calabai from birth. Also, when I got a bit older, I started playing
with girls’ toys. It’s a kodrat given by God. I didn’t really want this life, well,
I would never have chosen it, but it’s God’s will. I’m not one of those fake
calabai (calabai palsu) you often see, who just decides to become calabai
at a later stage in life. I’m asli [the real thing, e.g. not interested in women,
or just pretending to be like a woman]! At first my parents were very angry,
but after a while, when I started to earn a good income and be productive, well,
they couldn’t be mad any longer. Besides, how can you change your kodrat?
(Andi Enni)

Andi Enni notes here that once s/he started earning a good income hir parents
became more accepting. Boellstorff (2005a: 580) also found in Indonesia that success in society can mitigate the supposed sin of male homosexuality. In a comparable way, Sinnott (2004) notes that once toms in Thailand start earning a good
income their families tend to become more supportive. Similarly, Prieur (1998)
found that male jotas in Mexico are more likely to be accepted by their family if
they make a financial contribution.
While Andi Enni signals above that fate cannot be altered, not everyone in Bugis
South Sulawesi considers fate to be permanent, nor believes that fate is a credible
justification for assuming a particular gender identity. For example, Haji Mulyadi,
a religious leader (imam) states:
According to calabai they believe that it’s their kodrat, but they say that
because it’s their hobby (hobi). And because it’s their hobi, they can change it.
Here’s the proof, Serli (Sharyn), some calabai have kids! So you see their inner
nature can change (sifat bisa berubah). Certainly, their dominant nature (sifat)
is woman (wanita), but there’s a way out. For instance, they can change their
genitals (berubah kelaminannya).
(Haji Mulyadi)
Haji Mulyadi asserts calabai are no longer calabai if they have children. Haji
Mulyadi also believes sex-reassignment surgery is the only viable option for
calabai who want to ‘prove’ that their identity is not just a hobi – an interesting
parallel can be made here with Iran where there is pressure on individuals to
undergo sex-reassignment surgery to avoid being criminalized as homosexual
(Vossoughian and Esmaeli, 2006).
In addition to notions of fate, destiny and God’s will, many narratives contain
reference to individuals having a particular spirit (jiwa) or soul (roh). For instance,
when I asked Cappa’, who works in Makassar as a DJ, about being calalai s/he
stated, ‘I guess it’s this jiwa I have [that makes me calalai]. I don’t really know
(entahlah), it’s just this jiwa.’ In respect to being calabai, for 23-year-old Tilly, ‘It’s
just natural, it’s just me. Jiwa is also very important; you must have the jiwa calabai.’ For Tilly, being calabai is about having a calabai spirit, an innate quality that
cannot be learned. Ance’, a calalai and mother, reveals that what is important in
being calalai is having a particular roh: ‘I always wanted to be like my brothers
because I have this roh.’ The use of roh is a way for individuals to justify their

Contextualizing gender 37
subject positions and in a way absolve personal responsibility, as a religious calabai
named Haji Mappaganti does:
I’ve known from when I was really little that I would be calabai. I always
wanted to wear women’s clothes and to play girls’ games and do everything
like a girl. My behaviour made my parents very angry, though. They would hit
me and try to get me to be manly. It didn’t work. I am like I am because I have
this roh, and it can’t be changed.
(Haji Mappaganti)
Haji Mappaganti stresses that there is a force beyond hir control that has the power
to shape hir gender subjectivity. In other parts of Sulawesi, personality, like gender,
is also regarded as inborn and this legitimizes individuals’ behaviour (Broch,
2002). Other people though found it more difficult to express what led them
towards their particular gender acquisition, such as Desi who is in hir mid-20s:
I don’t know how I know [that I am calabai]. I just have to be like this. I have
no choice; I am forced (terpaksa). Even though my parents don’t, well they
would rather, at least at first, that I was like a man, it’s just not me. I just have
to be who I am, to be like this, you know?
(Desi)
Other people I spoke with about gender acquisition used faktor x in their narratives,
a term signifying something unknown. Maman, a calalai who often works as a
farmer and a blacksmith, notes:
I have eight sisters. I was treated like a son since I was born. For me, becoming
calalai was because of my parents and faktor x.
(Maman)
Maman was not able to elaborate on what s/he meant by factor x because it is a
phrase used to identify something that cannot be articulated. Elli, a calabai in hir
late 20s, told me that hir subject position resulted from the combined influence of
hir family and faktor x:
I have six older brothers and I was chosen to be the daughter because my
mother desperately wanted a girl. She used to dress me up in dresses, you
know. I think I’m calabai half because of this upbringing, and half because of
faktor x. I don’t really understand it though [faktor x]. I don’t think that I would
be like this [calabai] if my family, especially my mother, didn’t always treat
me like a girl, you know, dress me like a girl, take me to the market, give me
girls’ toys, tell me to play with the girls. But then if I didn’t have this faktor x,
then my parents wouldn’t have made me calabai. And even if I had this faktor
x, but my parents treated me like a boy and expected me to be like a boy, then I
probably wouldn’t be a calabai either. So I guess it must be half and half, both
factors have to be there.
(Elli)

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Contextualizing gender

Elli and Maman use faktor x to express an anomalous internal force that influences
their gender subjectivity. In various ways, then, individuals justify and articulate
their particular gendered selves. Belief in God’s will and an innate self, and in concepts such as fate and destiny are important in strengthening this position. Where a
particular influence cannot be identified, faktor x is used to relay notions of gender
formation. These narratives also point to the importance individuals place on ontologizing their subject positions.
* * * *
While Stein (2004: 257) acknowledges that as a category gender is largely arbitrary
and fundamentally limiting due to its power to define, organize, and shape the way
we see and experience the world, she concedes that gender is a necessary cognitive
category that we cannot live without. In this exploration, ethnographic material and
the additional incorporation of cross-cultural data and various theoretical perspectives have provided a means for the examination of gender. The key themes of this
chapter – bodies, desires, performances, and notions of self – have provided a
framework through which the multiple ways gender is constituted and experienced
in Indonesia can be illuminated. In the next chapter I analyse notions of queer
selves, specifically drawing on additional ethnographic material and transgender
theory to further conceptualize the intricacies and complexities of gender in
Indonesia.

3

Queer(y)ing transgender

In thinking about gender issues, Heather Love (2004: 259) suggests that queer
studies seems to have ‘reached an internal limit as it has confronted the new field
of trans studies.’ Love further notes that what her students are now really interested
in is not the complexity of sexuality but the difficulties of gender, a shift that
Love sees taking place in queer studies as a result of an explosion of fascinating
new work by transgender and transsexual critics (e.g. Bornstein, 1994; Califia,
1997; Cromwell, 1999; Feinberg, 1998; Green, 2004; Halberstam, 1998; 2005;
Hale, 1998; Prosser, 1998; Stone, 1991; Stryker and Whittle, 2006; Wilchins,
1997).
Interestingly, all the sources Love cites (although she does not mention all of the
above) are Western-based. Indeed, as Winter (2002) notes, although perhaps too
dramatically, a majority of work on transgender focuses on North American and
European transgender, with much of this work springing from a psychopathology
framework ‘foisting relatively superficial methods of study upon large samples and
seeking to make grand generalizations.’ However, it is cross-cultural writings by
and about transgender people that have in many instances provided legitimacy to
transgender movements in the West and stimulated new and exciting ways of
thinking about gender (cf. Ramet, 1996; Towle and Morgan, 2002: 469).
Partly because so much work on transgender derives from the West, this chapter
concentrates primarily on ethnographic material grounded outside this context.
Moreover, in order to foster contextualization and cross-cultural dialogue and
enhance awareness of gendered situations away from the West, this chapter
engages in an examination of non-Western case-studies.
A large pool of resources on gender variance in non-Western societies is now
available. With respect to male-born and intersexed individuals who reframe gender norms there is an impressive array of work published.2 There is also a growing
body of research on female-born individuals who do not adhere to normative
expectations, with two key anthologies being major contributions (Blackwood and
Wieringa, 1999; Blackwood, Wieringa and Bhaiya, 2007).3 While a body of literature has emerged concerning lesbian, gay and queer issues in the West, and there is
an increasing range of literature about same-sex experiences of male-bodied individuals outside the West, there are still relatively few studies that deal with the
same-sex attractions, experiences and lifestyles of women in Asian contexts. In

40

Queer(y)ing transgender

addition, the experiences of female-bodied individuals who do not identify as
women are rarely mentioned.
There are a number of possible reasons for this paucity of literature on female
gender variance. Fewer female-bodied individuals than male-bodied individuals
may deviate from gender norms; the small number of studies on female gender
transgression may reflect this reality. Female gender deviation may be ignored
because it is less noticeable and/or researchers have failed to consider female gender transgression – although as Sinnot (2004) points out female transgression in the
past was regulated in Thailand while male transgression was not. In earlier research
it may have been assumed that what can be said for male gender transgression and
homosexuality holds true for female experiences. Indeed, Blackwood (1986: 6)
notes that ‘until now the historical-cultural construction of homosexuality has been
based predominantly on the theories of male homosexuality which have been
applied to both male and female homosexual behaviour or, even more abstractly,
to a “trans-gender” homosexuality.’ As McIntosh (1981: 45) further reveals, the
assumption always was ‘that we can use the same theories and concepts for female
homosexuality and that, for simplicity, we can just talk about men and assume that
it applies to women.’ It may be for a combination of these reasons that female-bodied experiences have rarely been written about, although as highlighted earlier
material is increasingly available.
The first chapter of this book explored conceptualizations of gender in
Indonesia, showing how multiple factors combine in the formation of gendered
subject positions. In that chapter, as for the book as a whole, I used the term gender
to express a complex understanding that encompasses inter alia gender, sex and
sexuality. This current chapter more explicitly engages with cross-cultural explorations of gender variance and transgender theory to further illuminate notions of
gender in Indonesia, particularly in respect to Bugis South Sulawesi. While the theories analysed below do not necessarily attempt a grand model of gender variance,
it is through comparing and contrasting cross-cultural situations that gender experiences may be more fully appreciated. While the ethnographic settings discussed
below differ, subsequent differences and similarities are used to highlight the
particularities of Bugis gendered subject positions.
In order to undertake this analysis, I investigate the theoretical stances taken by
a number of scholars. I have made the selection using two main criteria. First, there
is clarity and robustness to the scholars’ theoretical arguments. While the cultural
contexts in which specific identities are formed result in alternative gender expressions, the specific theoretical tools developed can be fruitfully employed to
explore gendered experiences elsewhere. Furthermore, the selected accounts track
chronological changes in ways of theorizing gender diversity.
Second, the accounts are from different geographic locations. This direct regionto-region dialogue attempts to break with what Jackson (2000b: 951) calls the
‘centre-periphery model’ that ‘isolates each field of area studies from other geographically focused knowledges.’ Explicating this point further, Jackson (2000b:
951) notes, ‘Although researchers working on erotic cultures in different geographical regions read the scholarship on Western sexual history and sexual

Queer(y)ing transgender 41
politics, they typically ignore each others’ work.’ This is particularly evident, as
Jackson reveals, in three texts on male homosexual cultures in Brazil (Green, 1999;
Kulick, 1998; Parker, 1998). This myopia not only constricts comparative understandings of gender, but it also means that much research continues to be based on
the theories of analysts, such as Foucault, which often do not address non-Western
cultures. For instance, while Foucault (1980b: 68) did work spanning a period of
time, he did not extend his analysis across place or culture thus limiting the applicability of his theories (cf. Donham, 1998). While Western scholarship (about
Western countries) remains important, it needs to be incorporated into a corpus of
literature about gender throughout the world, a task this chapter specifically
undertakes.

Third sex/gender theory
In trying to account for gender multiplicity some scholars propose the use of a third
sex/gender category. As early as 1864, the German jurist Karl Heinrich Ulrichs
spoke of a third sex consisting of men who had a female soul in their bodies (van der
Meer, 1994). A review of the literature shows that discussions of third gender continued into the twentieth century. Martin and Voorhies (1975) used the term third
gender to show that gender categories in some societies could not be encompassed
under a two-gender framework, although they more consistently used the term
supernumerary sexes. The concept continued to gain currency, with Gilbert Herdt’s
(1994) anthology being particularly influential in promoting the use of the term
third sex/gender. This section examines the usefulness of third sex/gender theory in
relation to gender in Bugis South Sulawesi, as well as discussing more general
critiques that might be applied to the theory.
Gilbert Herdt was drawn to the idea of a third sex/gender category while conducting field work among Sambia in Papua New Guinea in the 1970s. Unable to
apply Western dimorphic models of sex/gender to the locally recognized category
kwolu-aatmwol (intersexes), Herdt sought a more inclusive way of theorizing
sex/gender multiplicity. This search led Herdt to investigate the concept third
sex/gender. Herdt found that this concept enabled him to theoretically disrupt the
dominant Western paradigm of sex/gender dimorphism that opposed male to
female, man to woman and masculine to feminine. This concept allowed Herdt to
move his analysis beyond the analytically and conceptually rigid boundaries
imposed by a sex/gender dualism and examine the dynamics occurring between
various sexes and genders. Introducing a third analytical category also enabled
Herdt (1994: 17, 19) to objectify hegemonic ‘first’ and ‘second’ categories and
examine kwolu-aatmwol as a distinct identity. By understanding kwolu-aatmwol
as a third sex/gender category, Herdt was better able to appreciate the complexities
of this subject position.
Herdt recognizes that some societies acknowledge more than three sex/gender
categories. He therefore uses ‘thirdness’ heuristically, arguing that it should not be
taken ‘literally to mean that in all times and places there are only three categories
possible in human classification’ (1994: 19–20). Rather, Herdt maintains that the

42

Queer(y)ing transgender

third is symbolic of other possible combinations that transcend dualism. Utilizing
third sex/gender theory means that scholars do not have to reduce the richness and
significance of multiple sex/gender categories and roles to a one dimensional ideology of sexual dimorphism or to the residual category of homosexuality (1994:
13). As testimony to its utility numerous scholars have applied third sex/gender
theory to their work. One such scholar is Serena Nanda (1986, 1990, 1994), who
has conducted extensive work with hijra in India.
In India, males who are impotent (with women) may be called upon by
Bahuchara Mata, one of the many versions of the Mother Goddess worshipped
throughout India, to dress and act like women and to become a hijra. Not all hijra
receive this calling from Bahuchara Mata, however. Some individuals become
hijra after having a particular dream demanding they join the hijra community. If an
individual fails to follow these instructions it is believed they will be born impotent
for seven future rebirths. Others are approached by a hijra who encourages them to
follow the same path. Some individuals join the hijra community because their particular desires (e.g. sexual desire for men and a passion to dress and behave like
women) are best fulfilled within this community.
The primary prerequisite a potential hijra must fulfil is emasculation, the surgical removal of male genitalia. The removal of this symbol of masculinity renders an
individual a hijra. Some hijra are born intersexed and so do not need to undergo the
emasculation operation. As hijra, individuals are endowed with the divine powers
of the goddess (shakti) and of the ascetic (tapas). As a vehicle of divine power, hijra
are then called upon to perform at the birth of a male child and at marriages and to
be servants of the goddess at the temple (Nanda, 1994: 373). This provides a way
for impotent men, who would never be accorded full personhood, to become powerful individuals. As Nanda (1994: 394) argues, ‘[F]or the individual who is incapable of reproduction, as either a man or a woman, or does not wish to marry, there
is a meaningful role available that transcends the categories of (married) man and
(married) woman. This is the role of the ascetic or renouncer.’ In identifying with
the ascetic role, individuals are transformed from embodying an incomplete personhood into embodying a transcendent one.4
Nanda argues that hijra constitute a third sex/gender category. One reason Nanda
is able to make this argument stems from Indian understandings of individual identity. In India, male and female are not considered opposite entities but rather constituted by similar elements in differing amounts. This belief is closely linked to the
dominant religion. Hinduism asserts that all peoples ‘contain within themselves
both male and female principles’ and, indeed, the Supreme Being is ‘conceptualized as one complete sex, containing male and female sexual organs’ (Nanda, 1994:
376). Hinduism thus provides a positive context for alternative sex/gender roles.
Indeed ancient Hindu texts mention three sexes divided into four categories. This
background offers a conceptual frame for hijra to be considered a third sex/gender
identity.
A second reason why hijra may constitute a third sex/gender identity is that they
are considered neither man nor woman but a combination of both. As one hijra
notes, ‘we are neither man nor woman and have been separated from God, so that

Queer(y)ing transgender 43
God grants our special prayers in every place, to us only’ (Nanda, 1990: 11). While
hijra may be like women in some respects, they are not considered women. Hijra
dance in the street and this contravenes accepted feminine rules of behaviour. They
may walk like women, but generally their walk is exaggerated, as is the female language hijra use. Hijra may also use coarse language and abusive speech and smoke
cigarettes. Many hijra exaggerate women’s dress and manners. They are also seen
to be sexually assertive, not submissive and demure like women should be. Hijra
performance, therefore, does not attempt a realistic imitation of women but rather a
burlesque (Nanda, 1994: 382). Moreover, hijra are not thought to be women
because they lack female reproductive organs. Emasculation signifies an individual’s transition into a hijra, not into a woman. In addition, hijra tend not to be
thought of as men because they are impotent with women: ‘[I]t is sexual impotence
(with women), then, and not sexual relations with men that defines the potential
hijra’ (Nanda, 1994: 380). According to Nanda, many hijra see themselves as not
only a third sex, but also a third gender.
Hijra perform specific roles in society that further support their third positioning.
Hijra conduct blessings at weddings and at the birth of male babies. In addition,
eunuchs have a 500-year history in India serving in ancient Hindu and, in particular, Muslim courts. It is this ‘cultural flexibility’ that permits Indian society to
accommodate sexual ambiguity and even accord it a measure of power (Nanda,
1994: 377). There is, then, a distinct role for, and often tolerance of, an alternative
gender category. For these reasons, Nanda argues that hijra constitute a third
sex/gender category.
Another group often considered to constitute a third sex/gender category are
Native American two-spirit people. Two-spirit people tend to be biological males
who assume many of the roles, functions, behaviours and dress of women. They
often become spiritual mediators and are considered particularly potent members
of society. For example, there is evidence of biologically female two-spirit people
who adopted men’s dress and became warriors (Blackwood, 1984: 31). The partners of two-spirit people are usually non-two-spirit people of the same sex. Similar
to hijra, becoming a two-spirit person is not always a matter of individual choice;
often an individual is directed to become a two-spirit person through a dream. Thus
social learning and personal experiences (including ritual and supernatural experiences) are considered just as important in defining social identity as anatomy
(Elledge, 2002; cf. Jacobs, Thomas and Lang, 1997; Roscoe, 1994: 370, 1998;
Tafoya, 2001, 2004).
While in many respects two-spirit people assume characteristics common to the
other sex, Roscoe argues that it is not possible to consider two-spirit people merely
as gender crossers. Rather, in numerous ways, two-spirit people assert a particular
subject position. While two-spirit people frequently cross-dress, not all do; even
two-spirit people who do cross-dress do not do so all of the time. Moreover, the
clothing styles of two-spirit people often do not reflect either men’s or women’s
clothing styles, but express a style of their own. For instance, two-spirit people have
particular sartorial designs and unique symbols, such as wearing particular
coloured feathers (Roscoe, 1994: 332–5). In addition, individuals are referred to

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with distinct linguistic terms, further suggesting two-spirit people are considered a
separate identity. Some two-spirit people take on a mixture of male and female pursuits. In this context, two-spirit people embody a combination of male and female
attributes and this is thought to bestow on them great powers and an ability to mediate between humans and the spirit world. Also, religious functions and life cycle
rites of two-spirit people are not undertaken by either women or men.
In light of these factors, a dualistic gender model is not considered adequate to
conceptualize gender in Native American society. As Roscoe (1994: 349) notes,
‘[T]heoretical models of berdache [two-spirit people] roles can no longer rely on
the analytical dichotomies of sex/gender and economy/ideology.’ Roscoe (1994:
338) further argues that two-spirit people in fact occupy a third gender role, or, in
the case of tribes with both male and female two-spirit people and distinct terms for
each, third and fourth genders. Other scholars have also conceptualized two-spirit
people as a third gender category (Blackwood, 1988: 171; Jacobs, 1983).
This particular understanding of gender among Native American tribes accommodates gender variance. While the presence of multiple genders does not require
belief in the existence of three or more physical sexes, Roscoe (1994: 342) points
out that it does require ‘a view of physical differences as unfixed, or insufficient on
their own to establish gender.’ While genitalia may signal difference in infants,
Roscoe (1994: 342) argues that ‘in a multi-gender paradigm the markers of sex are
viewed as no less arbitrary than the socio-cultural elaborations of sex in the form of
gender identities and roles.’ If a society does not assert that genitals solely determine gender, there is scope for acknowledging the existence of more than two
genders.
In addition to a flexible link between biology and gender, Roscoe reveals other
factors that need to be present in order for a particular group to be considered a third
sex/gender identity. In respect to two-spirit people, these factors include: productive specialization, such as crafts and domestic work for male two-spirit people, or
warfare, hunting, leadership roles for female two-spirit people; supernatural ability, usually in the form of an authorization and/or bestowal of powers from extrasocial sources; and gender variation in relation to normative cultural expectations
for men and women. For Roscoe, these features distinguish two-spirit people from
women and men and place them in a third sex/gender category.
To enrich third sex/gender theory, Roscoe proposes using a unified analysis.
First employed by Yanagisako and Collier (1987), a unified analysis recognizes the
need to move beyond analytical dichotomies such as sex/gender, nature/culture, or
domestic/public and develop methodology applicable to analysing larger
processes. A unified analysis is a three-phase process involving the investigation of
cultural meanings, social and economic structures and historical factors.
The first phase involves a critical examination of cultural meanings to develop
an awareness of the socially meaningful categories people employ in specific contexts, and what symbols and meanings underlie them. This phase also involves
looking at what kind of beliefs are associated with, and are necessary for formulations of, two-spirit people gender categories. Gender is also interrogated to determine how society views the concept – is gender dichotomous and fixed, or is a third

Queer(y)ing transgender 45
position conceptually possible? The second phase involves an analysis of the complex relationships between gender, kinship, economy, polity, religion and social
systems. A key point of inquiry is how power and society are differently organized.
Recognizing the persistence and continuity of social orders, the third phase
involves a historical study. Implicit in this undertaking is acknowledgment that
both the practices and ideas that seem to reproduce and reinforce one another from
a systemic perspective can be seen to destabilize and undermine each other from a
historical perspective (Roscoe, 1994: 350). A unified analysis also allows consideration of individual factors in the development of gender identity; for example,
motivations, desires, and self-generated meanings of the people who participate in
events and occupy social roles.
In line with a unified analysis, making a claim for third sex/gender status requires
a set of minimal conditions to be met. First, there must be a division of labour and a
prestige system that are organized in terms of gender categories. Second, there must
be a belief that gender is not determined by biological sex, or there must be
acknowledgment that biological sex is unstable, fluid and non-dichotomous. Third,
there must have been the occurrence of historical events, as well as individuals
motivated to take advantage of them, which have created and shaped gender identities (Roscoe, 1994: 371). If these conditions are present, an autonomous third category is viable. For Roscoe, two-spirit people meet these requirements and can thus
be considered a third sex/gender status.
Is third sex/gender theory, as developed and applied by Herdt, Nanda and
Roscoe, useful for conceptualizing gender in Bugis South Sulawesi? In many
respects, it is. Herdt uses the term ‘third’ heuristically to examine identities that fall
outside hegemonic gender norms. By objectifying the categories of woman and
man, it is possible to clearly examine the ways in which some individuals challenge
and subvert gender ideals. In turn, this enables analysis of how alternative gender
positions are developed, which is particularly useful in respect to calalai, calabai
and bissu as these latter subject positions do not result from individuals crossing
from one normative gender to the other. Calalai, for instance, do not attempt to be
exactly like men. Rather, calalai take on aspects of perceived masculinity, but also
rework masculine norms by associating freely with women, something they could
not easily do if they were men. By viewing calalai as a third gender, calalai are
acknowledged as a subject position in their own terms, not as a sub-category of
men, or as failed women.
Nanda’s development of third sex/gender theory to describe hijra identity is also
helpful, particularly in respect to conceptualizing the category of bissu. In many
ways, bissu, like hijra, can be seen as being neither man nor woman, nor male or
female. Like hijra, bissu subjectivity is not based on individuals moving from one
normative gender to the other. Moreover, use of third sex/gender theory provides
conceptual space for considering bissu outside the grounded gender sphere (e.g.
considering them as spiritual beings). The ability to assess the way gender and spiritual aspects interact in forming hijra identity can also be transposed to an analysis
of bissu. In this way, the intersection of bissu gendered positions with ritual and
spiritual aspects is granted theoretical space for examination.

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Roscoe substantially develops third sex/gender theory and enriches the way it
can be applied. By synthesizing third sex/gender theory with a unified analysis,
Roscoe is able to take into account the cultural meanings which give life to gender
identities. An emic understanding of the context in which an individual becomes a
gendered being provides clues as to whether a third sex/gender category is conceptually possible and useful. In many ways Bugis society, like Native American society, can be seen to acknowledge a third conceptual space.
A unified analysis also takes into consideration economic systems and social
roles. Bissu and calabai, like two-spirit people, often have particular forms of
employment. Bissu mediate between humans and the spirit world and thus have a
specific ritual role. Calabai are frequently employed to organize weddings and in
this capacity may be referred to as indo’ botting (B, wedding mother). Having
recognized roles in society contributes to the consideration of bissu and calabai as
third sex/gender categories.
A unified analysis additionally encourages examination of individual motivations and takes into account the impact of notions such as fate and destiny in gender
formation. Like two-spirit people, calalai, calabai and bissu assert that many factors
contribute to their gender positions and considering these groups as third sex/gender categories recognizes the importance of these various factors. A unified analysis also takes into account historical factors, something which is relevant in South
Sulawesi as Bugis origin narratives attribute great power to androgynous beings
(see Chapter 4). For Roscoe, then, in order for a group to possess all of the dimensions of a distinct gender category, they must embody ‘a pattern of difference
encompassing behavior, temperament, society and economic roles and religious
specialization’ (1994: 370).
Following the points outlined above, there are reasons for considering Bugis
society to be constituted by multiple gender identities. First, many Bugis have a
particular understanding of gender that acknowledges that biology does not solely
determine gender. Second, calabai, bissu, women and men have particular economic positions. Third, bissu have religious specializations. Fourth, calabai and
bissu exhibit styles of dress that neither men nor women follow. Fifth, there are historical precedents for considering multiple gender categories.
However, third sex/gender theory has come under quite sustained criticism.
Reddy (2005: 32) argues that the notion of third sex ‘effectively separates the
domain of sexuality from political economy and the analysis of other axes of
identity’ and that ‘emphasis on alternative sexualities unwittingly encourages the
delineation of yet another distinct subfield of study.’ Reddy continues by suggesting that:
rather than prying open the sex/gender arena, third sex studies have reiterated
the somewhat tautological and static terms of the debate by reinscribing the
division of Western (historicized) versus non-Western (somewhat ahistorical)
sex/gender systems, and reified the study of sexuality rather than emphasizing
its articulation with other axes of identity and modes of practice.
(2005: 32)

Queer(y)ing transgender 47
While Reddy makes some valid points she seems to conflate third sex/gender
theory with an analysis of only sexuality. Moreover, she excludes the possibility of
third sex/gender theory incorporating aspects of political economy and history,
which Roscoe (1994) is at pains to note are central to any such analysis. By
acknowledging that her informants did not always identify themselves as third sex
individuals, but instead adopted cultural symbols that were a combination of masculine and feminine, Reddy (2005: 32) both suggests that her informants sometimes
saw themselves as third sex individuals, and denies the possibility that combining
masculine and feminine qualities produces an additional category. Moreover,
while dismissing the notion of third sex, Reddy (2005: 206) contrarily uses the
concept of thirdness.
There are though further difficulties in applying third sex/gender theory. Weston
(1998: 167) notes that in discussions of third sex/gender it remains unclear as to
what qualifies as discrete gender identity; when does ambiguity become distinct
gender? Moreover, as Wieringa and Blackwood (1999: 23) ask, would groups such
as mustergil in southern Iraq or female husbands in African woman-marriages fit
the category? And where exactly would calalai fit? They are not considered
women, nor are they considered men, but they do not have well defined economic
positions. Moreover, where would lines, the femme partners of calalai, be placed?
In almost all ways lines conform to ideal notions of womanhood. However, lines
are involved in romantic relationships with female-bodied individuals (see Chapter
6). Lines do not appear to fulfil the requirements of a third sex/gender category so
would they be conceptually placed alongside heterosexual women? Even if lines
did fulfil the requirements of a third sex/gender category, how many individuals
would be needed in order for them to be considered a distinct gender? Could ten
individuals constitute a gender category? Moreover, a danger in considering lines
as an additional gender is expressed by Agrawal (1997: 294), who writing on India
warns, ‘The greater the number of genders the greater their oppressive potential as
each may demand the conformity of the individual within increasingly narrower
confines.’
A further danger in employing third sex/gender theory is the potential to consider
all third sex/genders throughout the world as a homogeneous category. As Towle
and Morgan (2002: 484) assert, third sex/gender theory has a tendency to subsume
‘all non-Western, nonbinary identities, practices, terminologies, and histories’
making the concept ‘a junk drawer into which a great non-Western gender miscellany is carelessly dumped.’ As Halberstam (1998: 28) further notes, ‘“thirdness”
tends to homogenize many different gender variations under the banner of “other”.’
In some cases, this results in isolating the West from everywhere else, reinforcing
ethnocentric attitudes.
Understandings of gender, and what constitutes it, are different in each society
and as Towle and Morgan (2002: 471) affirm, ‘understandings of other cultures is
not enhanced by broad, decontextualized transcultural surveys or by accounts that
encourage readers to take cultural features out of context’. So, for example, Roscoe
argues that third sex/gender identities can only exist in societies that do not believe
that genitals necessarily determine gender. However, while this may be applicable

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Queer(y)ing transgender

to Native American society and some conceptualizations of Bugis society, in India
genitals underpin hijra identity; the lack of a functioning penis defines the potential
hijra (Nanda, 1994: 380). Third sex/gender categorization overshadows such
specificities.
Third sex/gender theory not only masks differences among identities within the
third sex/gender ‘other’ (e.g. among calalai, calabai and bissu), but it privileges differences between normative first and second genders on the one hand, and third
genders on the other. There is also an implication that first and second categories
are inviolable and unproblematic and gender incongruence is set apart in order to
keep the meanings of ‘man’ and ‘woman’ safe from its disruptive influences
(Epple, 1998: 273). Indeed, it can be argued that third sex/gender theory serves to
reify the very system it is trying to subvert.
An additional difficulty with third sex/gender theory is that it creates the possibility of conflating the experiences of male- and female-bodied individuals.
Wieringa and Blackwood (1999: 23) raise this point, noting: ‘The limitations of this
category [third sex/gender] become apparent when we compare experiences of
male and female transgendered individuals.’ Although Jakartan butches may share
many characteristics with transgendered males, their experiences are vastly different (Wieringa, 1997). While individuals may see themselves as belonging to a third
sex/gender category, they do not necessarily consider themselves belonging to the
same third sex/gender category. How then can we meaningfully compare the experiences of calalai and calabai?
The risk of concealing female subordination in the culture concerned is thus a
significant problem associated with third sex/gender theory. As Wieringa and
Blackwood (1999: 24) point out, third sex/gender theory ‘may depoliticize and ultimately deny or even legitimate the oppression persons with a female body face . . .
the concept is too analytically unstable and too insensitive to gender subordination
to be applicable to women’s erotic friendships or transgendered females.’ Calalai
are less accepted in communities than calabai. Calalai do not have the degree of
economic and social power calabai have. Calalai are often reserved and secretive
about their identity in a way that calabai rarely have to be. These discrepancies are
not necessarily teased out in third sex/gender theory.
Third sex/gender theory has been a powerful and liberationist discourse for
many groups and individuals, and there is heuristic value in employing this theory
in respect to Bugis South Sulawesi. For instance, third sex/gender theory encourages acknowledgement of calabai, calalai and bissu as separate categories rather
than as individuals crossing from one normative gender to the only other legitimate
grouping. Third sex/gender theory also allows theoretical movement beyond gender dichotomies and it helps develop a conceptual framework outside the scope of
dominant gender models. While not advocating use of third sex/gender theory,
Wieringa and Blackwood (1999: 24) do acknowledge that, ‘The usefulness of the
concept “third sex/gender” seems to lie more in its destabilizing of the dominant
bipolar model of gender than in its analytical applicability.’ It is the possibility of
destabilizing gender dichotomies – although in some areas third sex/gender categories merely serve to reinforce the binary norm – that third sex/gender theory is

Queer(y)ing transgender 49
potentially useful. Although they too are critical of third sex/gender models, Towle
and Morgan (2002) reveal how the concept has been used to provide legitimacy to
transgender movements in places such as the USA, and how it has been helpful for
showing that Western gender models are neither universal nor innate. However, as
noted above, there are many difficulties with applying third sex/gender theory and
as such I move now to look at a further way of conceptualizing gender diversity.

Gender liminality
This section examines the work of Niko Besnier. I analyse his theoretical approach
to gender variance in order to determine whether the flexibility inherent within this
framework can offer an approach that may be adapted for conceptualizing gender
in Bugis South Sulawesi.
Q
Niko Besnier (1994, 1997) Qconducted ethnographic research among fakaleith in
Tonga. The category fakaleith is heterogeneous and therefore difficult
to define.
Q
Besnier is, however, able to make some broad statements. Fakaleith are biological
males who frequently engage in work activities usually associated with women: in
rural contexts, mat
Q weaving, tapa-cloth beating and keeping house; in urban
contexts, fakaleith may work in sweat shops, offices, the hotel industry, in theQ
entertainment of tourists and primary education (Besnier, 1997: 9). Fakaleith
may also
Q engage in sex work with men, taking the receptive role. Stereotypically,
fakaleith are associated with domestic
Q social spheres, socializing in the home
rather than away from it. Fakaleith generally choose women friends, unlike
TonganQ men who associate
Q primarily with other men. Tongans easily recognize
fakaleith. While fakaleith demeanour exhibits certain qualities identified as feminine – a swaying gait, an animated face, a highly emotional comportment, a fast
speaking tempo and a tendency to be verbose – their demeanour is notQ entirely
mimetic of the average Tongan woman. Tongans often describe fakaleith as ‘men
who are like women,’ or ‘50–50s’ (i.e. 50 per cent woman, 50 per cent man)
(Besnier, 1997: 10).
Q
While these attributes give a general sense of fakaleith, this subject position is far
more complex than a simple checklist suggests. Not allQ of the aforementioned features are necessary or sufficient to determine
fakaleith identity. There is no clear
Q
hierarchy of attributes; indeed fakaleith
may
rate
certain
Q
Q factors as more important
in their identity thanQ non-fakaleith
while
older
fakaleith
may cite different attributes
Q
to younger fakaleith. Fakaleith identity is also in a state of constant diachronic flux,
Q
in part because fakaleith often embrace socio-cultural change and innovation from
overseas. Fluidity, permeability
and multi-layering are thus fundamental aspects of
Q
what it means to be fakaleith Q(Besnier, 1997).
Besnier theorizes
fakaleith identity within Tongan society in a particular way.
Q
While fakaleith conform to the minimal set of requirements set out by Roscoe
(1994) to be classed as a third sex/gender category, Besnier (1994: 286) shies ‘away
from referring to the category under question as a “third gender”.’ Rather Besnier
(1994: 286) argues that ‘the phenomenon is primarily an issue of gender rather than
sex, because it is primarily defined in social and cultural terms’ and grounded in the

50

Queer(y)ing transgender

problematics of sexuality. Besnier,Q therefore, sees no compelling evidence that
Polynesian culture accords fakaleith a separate gender status.
Besnier (1997: 24) avoids what he sees as the ‘anthropological obsession with
identity’ that
Q may be forcing us to ask the wrong questions about what it means to
be fakaleith. Besnier thus moves away from notions of identity, choosing instead to
concentrate on a variety of processes, including social, material and cultural relationships and the (re)creation of hierarchies,
representations and transactions. It is
Q
through these processes that fakaleith subject positions Qare constructed (Besnier,
1997: 24). Besnier (1997: 24) further argues that fakaleith notions of self develop at
the convergence of stereotypical representations of women and men, different
aspects of which may be mutually contradictory. Resistance to these representations and the material consequences
of these stereotypes and this resistance underQ
pin what it means to be fakaleith.
Q
In searching for a way to conceptualize fakaleith, Besnier finds a conceptual tool
in the notion of liminality. Liminality was first theorized by Arnold van Gennep
(1907) and later elaborated by Victor Turner (1967, 1969). Turner (1969: 94) identifies three major characteristics of liminal events and persons: liminal entities are
neither here nor there; they are betwixt and between the positions assigned and
arrayed by law, custom, convention and ceremony; and they are temporal, giving
the sense of something in transition, such as the individual in life-cycle rituals.
Liminality captures many attributes of ‘indeterminate gender status’ in
Polynesia (Besnier, 1994: 287). For Besnier, the ideal categories
of woman and
Q
man are relatively stable and easily described.
Fakaleith
,
however,
are harder to
Q
pin down.
The
boundaries
of
fakaleith
cannot
be
clearly
defined
and being
Q
fakaleith involves constant variation and movement. It is in accommodating this
high level of flux that the notion of liminality is useful. Liminality enables some
individuals to be considered distinct from normative gender categories, yet it does
not attempt to define a rigorous set of criteria to which individuals have to conform.
Q
Liminality is also useful in that it takes into account ways in which
Q fakaleith bounce
off dominant gender norms, yet acknowledges that fakaleith remain a distinct
category. Q
Fakaleith can be considered gender-liminal persons for a number of reasons. The
first reason concerns production specialization. According to Besnier, genderliminal persons are most fundamentally distinguished by the nature of their labour
contribution. In urban and rural Polynesia, gender-liminal males gravitate towards
women’s work. Indeed, such individuals
are thought to excel in women’s tasks.
Q
The second reason why fakaleith can be considered gender-liminal persons relatesQ
to roles, behaviours, attitudes and dress. Besnier (1994: 327) argues that fakaleith
are men ‘who borrow certain social and cultural attributes and
Q symbols normatively associated with women.’ This borrowing Qplaces fakaleith in an indeterminate
gender position. The third reason for fakaleith being considered gender-liminal
relates to sexuality. Gender-liminal individuals generally exhibit same-sex erotic
desires and behaviours; however, these are neither a necessary nor a sufficientQcriterion for gender-liminal status (Besnier, 1994: 299). As noted earlier, fakaleith are
‘betwixt and between’ the normative gender models of masculine-male-man and

Queer(y)ing transgender 51
feminine-female-woman.
Gender-liminality, then, captures many of the intricacies
Q
of being fakaleith.
The notion of liminality is useful in some respects in understanding gender multiplicity in Bugis South Sulawesi. Employing liminality allows for exploration of
the relationships and intersections between dominant and contested gender norms.
Liminality also enables analysis of the ways certain individuals challenge and subvert gender norms. While calalai, calabai and bissu develop their identities in
response to ideal gender models, they are often conceptualized as being at points
that bifurcate the poles of this dominant schema. Besnier also makes the point that
gender liminal people in the Pacific help reproduce heteronormativity; their position operates to cement rather than undermine dominant gender models. In many
ways, calalai, calabai and bissu also reinforce heteronormativity; for instance,
bissu and calabai play a role in heterosexual marriage, as will be shown in later
chapters. Using the notion of liminality is thus useful in many respects in exploring
calalai, calabai and bissu gendered subject positions.
There are, however, limitations in applying the notion of liminality, as employed
by Besnier, to Bugis South Sulawesi. First, Besnier (1994: 327) views ‘liminal
[male] individuals as men who borrow certain social and cultural attributes and
symbols normatively associated with women.’ He does not see gender liminality as
a subject position in its own right, although he does acknowledge that this borrowing might give rise to a loosely defined identity. Moreover, Besnier (1994: 285)
suggests that, ‘the adoption by certain individuals of attributes associated with a
gender other than their own is deeply embedded in the dynamics of Polynesian cultures and societies.’ This proposal assumes that there is some essential gender from
which gender liminal individuals deviate. Besnier does not define what this essential gender is, nor does he state whatQ it is based on (e.g. is it based on genitalia?).
Furthermore, by arguing that fakaleith borrow aspects from women, Besnier undermines the ways in which liminal individuals create their own styles and behaviours.
Calabai, for instance, do not simply conform to idealized models of local womanhood. Rather, calabai contest dominant norms of masculinity and femininity,
rework styles and fashions from outside Indonesia, and (re)create ways of being
gendered.
Second, there is a danger in assuming that all gender liminal individuals share the
same experiences and embodiments. In Bugis South Sulawesi, the experiences of
calalai, calabai and bissu are dramatically different. Calalai are not liminal in the
same way as bissu. For bissu, their liminal status indicates a level of power. Bissu
are betwixt and between humans and the spirit world and this factor signifies their
ability to mediate between these two groups. Conversely, calalai are liminal in a
way that renders them invisible and powerless. Classing bissu and calalai as gender-liminal persons, but failing to explore their different experiences of liminality,
ignores an important dynamic in both of these subject positions.
A third reason why liminality, following Besnier’s interpretation, does not fit
with Bugis notions of gender is found in relation to the structure of gender. Besnier
(1994: 320) sees ‘no compelling reason to treat gender liminality as a challenge to
gender dimorphism.’ Rather, Besnier argues that gender liminal people in the

52

Queer(y)ing transgender

Pacific, and their roles in those societies, operate to cement heteronormativity. In a
similar sense, calalai, calabai and bissu also operate to highlight ideal gender types
by bringing the latter into sharp relief, and thus shoring up dominant gender ideals.
Furthermore, in many ways the relatively high degree of integration, especially of
bissu and calabai, in the ritual and social life of Bugis society means that these
identities stabilize dominant gender norms. Indeed, as Peter Jackson (pers. comm.
2003) notes, the close involvement of bissu and calabai in weddings indicates that
they have a central role in reproducing the core institution of heterosexuality rather
than challenging it.
Yet adherence to a dichotomous gender structure is undermined by the presence
of calalai, calabai and bissu in Bugis South Sulawesi. While there are certainly two
dominant genders, conceptual possibilities of alternative gender positions provide
a counterweight to ideal norms. Indeed there is a seeming paradox here: calalai, calabai and bissu seem in many ways to simultaneously reinforce and subvert gender
binaries. There is no easy resolution to this paradox. While calalai, calabai and
bissu reify gender norms (e.g. the categories of woman and man are clearly defined
when compared to non-normative gendered categories), they also disrupt gender
dimorphism by providing people with designated alternatives to feminine-femalewoman and masculine-male-man. The naming of multiple genders allows people
knowledge of alternative possibilities and this option means that the binary gender
system is in some ways reworked.
The concept of liminality, in Besnier’s deployment of it, relies on a binary gender
structure and therefore this version of gender liminality misses some of the subtleties of gender in Bugis South Sulawesi. However, liminality is a useful tool in
conceptualizing Bugis gender in that it allows appreciation of the ways individuals
dispute and modify gender norms. Liminality also provides a space for considering
the level of flux that operates between dominant and contested gender models.
Keeping the strengths and weaknesses of notions of gender liminality in mind, I
now turn to the work of Peter Jackson to explore whether his approach to theorizing
gender multiplicity is able to be adapted to inform understandings of Bugis gender.

Sliding scales of gender
Since the 1960s, Jackson (2000a, 2003a) has observed a range of new varieties of
gender/sex beings (phet) emerging in Thailand – Jackson (2000a: 421) here inverts
the order of terms in Rubin’s (1975, 1984) notion of a ‘sex/gender system’ to mark
the ‘continuing priority of gender over eroticism in Thai identities.’ Phet is a
particularly useful term as it ‘denotes a distinctive type of gendered existence
which has its own characteristic form of eroticism or sexual desire’ (2000a: 409).
While the reasons behind the explosion of phet are engaging, it is Jackson’s consideration of phet and its potential application to conceptualizations of gender in
Bugis South Sulawesi that is of most concern in this section. While Jackson’s work
is located in Thailand and his theoretical developments are based on his work there,
I want to see whether the tools Jackson crafts can be usefully adapted and reapplied
to allow further articulation of Bugis notions of gender.

Queer(y)ing transgender 53
Prior to the 1960s, only three forms of phet were recognized in published Thai
discourse: normatively masculine men, normatively feminine women and an intermediate category called kathoey. Kathoey was a term used to describe a person,
male or female, who exhibited hermaphroditic features or who expressed behaviour considered inappropriate for their sex (Jackson, 2000a: 409). Within both popular and academic sources, kathoey have long been referred to as a third gender/sex.
Acknowledgment of kathoey has meant that Thai gender/sex categories have
always proved difficult to assimilate into Western dimorphic models (Morris,
1994: 22).
There are a number of types of phet that came to be recognized in the mid-1980s
and are still evident today.5 There are two types of men: chai (man) and seua bai
(male bisexual). There are six groupings under kathoey: gay king, gay queen,
kathoey (transgender), kathoey plaeng phet (transsexual), khon sorng phet (hermaphrodite) and tom (tomboy, butch lesbian). Then there are two types of woman:
dee (femme lesbian) and ying (woman) (Jackson, 2000a: 412). While there is no
general agreement in Thailand on how many phet now exist (e.g. some people think
chai and seua bai are a single phet), most commentators count at least seven contemporary types of phet: man, gay king, gay queen, kathoey, tom, dee and woman
(2000a: 414). These identities are not just known in Bangkok; through the media,
most people in the country are now familiar with these seven types of gendered subject positions. This range of phet provides the potential to develop a dynamic
framework for conceptualizing gender/sex diversity.
In Thai understandings, the masculine/feminine opposition underlies all forms
of erotic expression (Sinnott, 2004). There is acknowledgement that these two
domains (masculine/feminine) intersect to varying degrees in the body. There is
also awareness of the interplay between gender, biological sex and erotic desire. An
understanding of the interaction of all of these factors is crucial to understandings
of Thai gender/sex identities. Indeed, for Jackson (2000a: 409), the proliferation of
new phet categories can be understood as emerging from a ‘refinement of the
premodern notion of gender/sex intersection, with unequal blendings of masculinity and femininity being seen as producing new categories which are neither
“truly men”, “truly women”, nor “truly kathoey”.’
Thai gender/sex categories can be conceptually ordered along a continuum
ranging from the most masculine (100 per cent man, chai) at one end, to the most
feminine (100 per cent woman, ying) at the other, with a variety of categories in
between (Jackson, 2000a, 2004). It is a person’s location on the multipositional
scale of phet that is imagined to determine his or her erotic preference. As such,
individuals tend to be imagined first in terms of their position on ‘a scale of
relative masculinity and femininity and only secondarily in terms of homoerotic
partnering’ (2000a: 415). Gay men who lead active sex lives do not necessarily see
homoerotic desire as the main determinant of their identity. Erotic desire can be
seen as a natural consequence of gender status. Within the phet gender continuum,
it is more important to know how masculine or feminine an individual is than to
know the types of sexed bodies and gendered performances they find erotically
interesting.

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Jackson found that quantitative metaphors are often used in expressing notions
of phet, similar to Besnier’s findings above. Gay men, for instance, may describe
themselves as ‘60–40’, or ‘70–30’. Such percentages invoke use of the proportional
combinations of masculinity and femininity an individual embodies; it also relates
to imagined blendings of king (sexually insertive) and queen (sexually receptive)
(2000a: 415). These combinations take into account the close relationship between
gender and sexuality, a connection that Rosalind Morris (1994) downplays in her
work on Thailand.
Following Sedgwick (1990), Morris (1994: 34) suggests that Thai discourses
now represent a complex of ‘two irreconcilable but co-existent sex/gender
systems’ – one indigenous and based on gender; the other borrowed and structured
around the Western notion of sexuality. Following a Foucauldian model, Morris
argues that the earlier, pre-1960, Thai model of just three identities (i.e. mankathoey-woman) was constructed within a system based on gendered discourses.
The newer model of identities, however, also consists of gay, tom, dee and bisexual
categories. These latter categories, Morris argues, are conceptualized as identities
based on sexuality, not on varying proportions of masculinity and femininity.
Jackson questions Morris’ proposal, arguing that a closer analysis of understandings of phet, within which all gender/sex categories are understood, ‘suggests
that no clear break between gender and sexuality can be established’ (2000a: 414).
Western discourses of sexuality have influenced both popular and academic understandings of eroticism in Thailand. Indigenous discourses have, however, resisted
forming a domain of sexuality distinct from gender. Thai gender/sex categories are
still understood in terms of the indigenous conception of phet, which incorporates
sexual difference (male versus female), gender difference (masculine versus feminine) and sexuality (heterosexual versus homosexual) within a single formation
(2000a: 414). Gay is not distinguished as a sexuality and kathoey as a gender.
Rather, they, along with man, woman, tom and dee are collectively considered different varieties of phet. As Jackson (2000a: 417) further asserts, ‘[W]e need to conceive of new gay, tom, dee and other identities as genders (alongside “man” and
“woman”) as much as forms of eroticism.’ The multi-positional scale of phet
enables consideration of the assorted aspects that contribute to an individual’s identity. This scale highlights the constitutive relationship between gender, biology and
sexuality.
The idea of a gender continuum is useful in conceptualizing gender in Bugis
South Sulawesi. Similar to Thai positionings, masculine-male-men and femininefemale-women can for some people be located at opposing ends of a continuum.
Spread along the continuum various other categories can be positioned according
to their particular combination of masculinity and femininity. Kathoey ‘are conceived in terms of the mythical equal blending of maleness/masculinity and
femaleness/femininity’ (Jackson, 2000a: 413). As such, kathoey are placed in the
middle of the phet spectrum. Similarly, bissu are considered to embody a perfect
combination of maleness and femaleness and can be likewise positioned. Including
various other gendered categories, a Bugis gender continuum can be ordered in the
following way: makkunrai (woman), lines (femme partner of calalai), calalai,

Queer(y)ing transgender 55
bissu, calabai, oroané (man). This arrangement provides a way of representing
Bugis gender categories showing their respective relationships and positionings.
A gender continuum allows integration of ways erotic desire, gender and biology
impact upon each other. While Bugis notions of gender and sexuality have been
influenced by various discourses, there is a general reluctance to distinguish sexuality from gender, with erotic desire being incorporated into particular gendered
subject positions; although gay Indonesian men, for instance, may separate
these positions (Boellstorff, 2005b). As Jackson (2000a: 416) astutely notes for
Thailand, it is difficult, indeed ultimately impossible, ‘to consistently sustain a difference between the notion of desire for a particular type of sexed body (whether
male or female), and hence of sexual identity, and the idea of a preference for enacting a particular gender performance (whether masculine or feminine), and hence of
gender identity.’
There are differences between Thai and Bugis understandings of gender that
mean that the concepts appropriate for one cannot necessarily be entirely transposed to the other, although they can be productively used to illuminate respective
situations. In Bugis South Sulawesi there are clear notions of what constitutes generally desired femininity and masculinity, although such ideals may vary according
to age, status and location. Locating identities that conform to masculine and feminine ideals at either end of a continuum is possible. Where difficulties arise, however, is in fitting other gendered positions along this continuum. The conventional
Bugis, and Indonesian more generally, model of womanhood presupposes that an
individual is female, feminine and heterosexual. Lines are female and embody
many ideals of femininity – indeed they are often considered more feminine than
women. However, lines are attracted to masculine females and this excludes them
from the model of ideal womanhood. Where, then, would lines fit on a multi-positional gender scale? If they are more feminine than women but they have same-sex
desires, is it accurate to represent their position as being closer to the masculine end
than heterosexual women?
In another example, calabai are commonly considered to be more feminine than
calalai. On a gender scale, however, female-bodied calalai would be located closer
to the feminine end than male-bodied calabai. This is not a clear representation of
their relative subject positions though because calalai are in other ways more like
men than are calabai. It is also hard to account for bissu on a gender continuum.
Bissu mediate between humans and the spirit world and this role locates them in a
conceptual position above humans. Placing bissu on a continuum alongside mortals fails to take into account their spiritual embodiment. While instructive in many
ways, locating Bugis gender identities along a continuum is thus problematic and
risks overlooking the dynamic interplay between femininity and masculinity, sexuality, biology and spiritual embodiment.
One reason why it is difficult to apply a multi-positional gender scale to Bugis
gendered positions is that so many elements contribute to notions of a gendered
self. While in Thailand this is also the case, there is for many Thai people a hierarchy in the importance of various factors. Sexuality in Thailand is considered less
instrumental in forming a gendered identity than is the relative degree of femininity

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and masculinity an individual possesses. In Bugis South Sulawesi, a gendered
sense of self is achieved not only as a result of certain combinations of masculinity
and femininity, but also through the interplay of a range of other features, such as
fate, sense of self and religion. Moreover, in Bugis South Sulawesi a particular
combination of masculinity and femininity does not necessarily determine sexuality, as it may in Thailand. Rather, for many Bugis erotic desire may instigate masculine or feminine behaviour. For instance, if a female is attracted to a woman s/he
may then develop a masculinity identity – an experience explored more in Chapter
6. Such diverse contributing factors are potentially lost when gender identity is
analysed according to a linear spectrum.
Jackson’s conceptualization of Thai phet categories is a useful tool for thinking
about Bugis gender identities. It takes into consideration the close link between
femininity, masculinity, biology and erotic desire. It also allows consideration of
multiple gender identities and provides such identities with an autonomous space
for theoretical consideration. However, differences between the gender schemas of
the two societies mean that a multi-positional gender scale is not completely appropriate for conceptualizing Bugis notions of gender. Phet categories emphasize that
an individual’s position on the scale of phet (e.g. their degree of femininity and
masculinity) influences their sexual desire, although individuals construct their
own personal narratives in relation to dominant discourses. In Bugis South
Sulawesi, this situation is often reversed; an individual’s sexuality may influence
other factors in the formation of a gender identity. Furthermore, placing Bugis gender subject positions on a continuum overlooks many of the complexities associated with gender multiplicity (e.g. bissu are part deity and calalai are considered
more masculine than calabai). Despite these difficulties, a gender continuum is a
useful but partial tool for extrapolating notions of gender in Bugis South Sulawesi.
* * * *
This chapter has explored various ways of conceptualizing gender multiplicity.
After an introduction highlighting the growing awareness of transgender and gender diversity, the chapter explored theoretical approaches used to examine gender
variance in a range of cultural contexts, comparing and contrasting these
approaches with my own field work data. What I have provided is a careful critical
summary of the selected theories, extending thinking about gendered subject positions. Developing a framework for conceptualizing gender is a difficult undertaking and assessing particular theories helps illuminate differences and similarities in
cross-cultural gender systems. Gender theories that are particularly helpful in
respect to Bugis gender are those that incorporate notions of poststructuralism and
performativity. Of most use are those theories that show how gender identities and
relations are discursively produced, negotiated, resisted and transformed as power
shifts in a society. However, these approaches cannot be at the expense of overlooking the hegemonic and regulating effects of medicine, jurisprudence, and the
state in gender formation and preservation (Towle and Morgan, 2002: 486). Towle
and Morgan (2002: fn. 52) give many good examples of work that incorporates this

Queer(y)ing transgender 57
thinking (e.g. Case, Brett, and Foster, 1995; Delany, 1995; Griggers, 1993; Ian,
1995; Morris, 1995; Stephen Whittle, 1996). However, these particular examples
are Western based and linked to sexuality. If we are to get away from the very things
that Towle and Morgan are hoping and develop a more complex view of gendered
subject positions we must increasingly incorporate cross-cultural and ethnographic
material. As Jackson (2005) notes, critiques of critical theory have still tended to
take Western theory as their starting point with the analytical task seen as ‘refining’, ‘expanding’, or otherwise ‘modifying’ originally Western ways of imagining
the world in the light of empirical evidence garnered from non-Western casestudies. That is, both critical theorists and their critics (and Jackson does not claim
to be removed from this), still tend to epistemologically privilege Western theory.
Towle and Morgan affirm that researchers should study Western gendered subjectivities and not just eroticize non-Western examples. Yet they give the impression that non-Western material becomes the basis for theoretical developments,
which it does not necessarily do; ethnography gained from non-Western studies is
generally used to affirm or refute Western theories. While observing their concerns
about how non-Western examples are used in some popular transgender literature,
there is a need for non-Western theories to be developed from non-Western cases.
This chapter has thus taken up one of the calls made by Towle and Morgan
(2002: 492) to examine the content and complexities of gender in specific cultural
settings. In this chapter, I have used theories developed in non-Western settings,
although formed by Western-based academics, to initiate context based, cross-cultural dialogue, which grounds theoretical developments in rich data. Towle and
Morgan further note they would like to see greater attention given to the historical
and social contexts in which gendered and sexualized bodies and relationships are
produced, reproduced and transformed (cf. Namaste, 1996: 194). Similarly,
Valentine (2004: 219) notes that in addition to ethnography, historical analysis is
needed to provide a powerful framework though which to analyse the relationships
between gender, sex and sexuality, and to avoid the experiential being subsumed
and reordered by the categories used to make sense of the experience. I therefore
turn now to explore more specifically the historical and cultural contexts in which
Bugis gendered subject positions are formed and negotiated.

4

Gendering the present past

Dramatic tales involving heavenly deities, ocean-dwelling rulers and androgynous
beings permeate the mythological past of Indonesia. These epics are told and retold in
daily life, often for entertainment, often in order to reinforce a particular lesson or
moral. These epics serve many other purposes as well. In order to assert and justify
their status and position in contemporary society, bissu often recount mythological
narratives, as well as drawing on actual accounts of the past. The ways in which the
real and imagined past are currently used thus become considerations in understanding notions of gender in Indonesia. As Grewal and Kaplan (2001: 667) affirm, historical analysis shows us a range of gender differences in various locations, and by
recognizing these divergent pasts we can ‘begin to understand that the legacies of
these traditions with attendant identities and practices produce new kinds of subjects
in the present moment.’ Not only does an examination of the past (both real and imagined) and how it is evo.ked today help contextualize gender, but also it can give insight
into claims made by individuals to legitimize queer subject positions. The title of this
chapter evokes the idea of the past being used in the present to enunciate gender.
Historical contextualization is important in work on gender and sexuality (e.g.
Blackwood, 2005a; Grewal and Kaplan, 2001; Jackson, 2003a; Peletz, 2006;
Reddy, 2005). In his work on Indonesia, Oetomo argues that although there are
risks of essentializing past practices in efforts to legitimize present ones, pressures
from conservative, capitalist and modernist forces have met with resistance from
opposing liberal forces that have successfully used the dynamic dialects of past and
present to promote the position of people of different genders and sexualities.
Oetomo further states that:
While transgendered ritual specialists [such as bissu] may not fully regain their
respected, glorious positions, they are beginning to be able to empower themselves to survive in current society and, perhaps equally important, contemporary transgendered people and people of non-hegemonic sexualities can use
this history strategically to empower themselves.
(2006: 331)
Indeed, Oetomo (2006: 330) recollects how he used the work of van der Kroef (1956)
to frame his own legitimate arguments for transgenderism and homosexuality.
As Boellstorff notes:

Gendering the present past 59
The prior existence of recognized male transvestites has had a profound impact
upon gay subject positions, and it is a prime reason for some differences
between gay and lesbian subjects positions in Southeast Asia, since nowhere in
Southeast Asia did there exist any female transgendered subject position with
anything like the visibility of waria, kathoey, bakla, or other male transvestite
subject positions.
(2007a: 196)
Yet elsewhere Boellstorff (2005b) highlights a potential danger in linking the past,
particularly tradition, with claims for legitimacy and authenticity. Boellstorff
(2005b: 36) asserts that in this postcolonial context, ‘it can appear that without an
unbroken historical timeline one must view gay and lesbian non-Westerners as
derivative, converging on a single global conception of homosexuality.’ In contrast, in his work in Indonesia, Boellstorff found that there is generally no meaningful connection between gay and lesbi subject positions and the past. For gay and
lesbi Indonesians, ‘belonging, recognition, and authenticity are legitimated not
through history but by the performance of good deeds (prestasi) in the present’
(Boellstorff, 2005b: 35). To steer away from a strict chronological narrative,
Boellstorff employs the use of the archipelago metaphor, which allows a variety of
casual relationships between the past and present, including no relationship at all,
to be considered. This approach provides authenticity for subject positions that do
not claim a temporal trajectory.
A dilemma faced in this chapter, then, is how to incorporate narratives of bissu
and others who frequently assert contemporary legitimacy in part through reference to past events while avoiding delegitimizing subject positions that do not necessarily make such claims. Many tomboi and other queer subjects in Indonesia find
the past to be irrelevant to their subject positions and focusing in this chapter on
how the past is used can unwittingly undermine their status. Yet some tomboi do
make use of the past to confirm a sense of place in today’s Indonesia and ignoring
these narratives would be a disservice to their sense of self. As Blackwood (2005a:
871) shows, while state and Islamic discourses provide a dominant frame of reference and worldview for today’s gender transgressors in Indonesia, ‘faint echoes of
older gender mythologies are also perceptible.’ For example, a Jakarta lesbian
group uses the wayang puppet figure of Srikandi as their symbol, recalling
Srikandi’s bravery and ability to transgress normative models of womanhood.
Blackwood (2005a: 868) also mentions a tomboi who tells of an individual’s miraculous transformation from a woman to a man, evoking the ‘magical powers and
gender-switching abilities of deities that remain in the popular consciousness (and
on television) in contemporary Indonesia.’ Calalai too recall narratives of the past.
One informant spoke of Bugis society long recognizing the potency of beings that
combine female and male qualities, and s/he used this example to argue for the
acceptance of calalai. I therefore include this chapter because for a number of queer
subjects the use of the actual and mythological past is important in staking claims
for current legitimacy. The chapter also shows the variety of ways in which subject
positions are established through negotiation with the past. As such, this chapter

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heeds calls made by Towle and Morgan (2002), Peletz (2006) and others, to give
greater attention to the historical contexts in which gendered subjects are produced
and modified. However, this chapter explicitly aims to avoid delegitimizing subjects whose authenticity is not predicated on the past.
When recalling the past, issues of romanticization arise. For instance, in a
number of published accounts, bissu are presented as now being close to extinction,
whereas once they commanded great power (e.g. Holt, 1939; Lathief, 2003; Pelras,
1979). A review of Grauer’s (2004a) documentary The Last Bissu captures this
representation well:
[The film follows] the high [bissu] priest of an ancient Indonesian transvestite
order chosen in 1941. Once all powerful, their gradual demise began as the system of royal courts declined and government forces, intolerant of unorthodox
religious beliefs and transvestite behavior, nearly annihilated them. Once
numbered in the hundreds, the sect itself seems close to extinction with the
[Bola] Arajang, the sacred relic house, near dilapidation and by the end of the
20th century a mere handful of adherents in hiding, fearing for their lives.
(Queer Day, 2005)
Elsewhere, Cohen (2005: 142) writes that the documentary is a salvage ethnographic film of bissu. While I have not met any bissu who say they currently fear for
their lives, bissu certainly suffered many restrictions and a great deal of persecution
from 1950 until the early 1990s; a number of bissu were murdered and others were
forced to conduct their activities secretly. Indeed, this is still the case for spiritual
practitioners elsewhere in Indonesia – Herriman (2007) notes that many ‘sorcerers’
were killed in Java between 2000 and 2002.
A major shortcoming of the above review, though, is that it juxtaposes an idealized
past with a fear-filled present, missing the nuances of bissu life. Indeed, the dilapidated Bola Arajang was built anew in 2000. The review also neglects to mention that
bissu are engaging in new forms of media, such as consulting on and
featuring in documentary films and stage plays (Grauer, 2004a; National Geographic,
2008;Nowra, 1999; Tomaszewski, Rush and Graham, 2001; Wilson, 2004). Indeed,
Wilson’s play, which includes a bissu performer, has been staged in Ravenna,
Barcelona, Madrid, Amsterdam, Lyons, New York, Jakarta and Singapore (Lindsay,
2007). These engagements, as well as participation in cultural festivals, have given
bissu opportunities to travel throughout Indonesia and abroad. While bissu do often
talk nostalgically about the past, the same bissu also mention that their current
position is better than at any other time. For instance, bissu mention that previously
they received substantial emotional and financial support from royal courts, but they
also note that their blessings are now being requested by all sorts of people for all
sorts of events, such as weddings and safe journeys to Mecca. As Sinnott comments
in response to Peletz’s (2006) article on transgenderism in Southeast Asia:
[P]erhaps the historical trajectory Peletz is describing is not only towards the
suppression and delegitimizing of traditional transgender categories but also

Gendering the present past 61
towards modern sexual formations and sexual subjects in which a proliferation
of sexual discourse, including pathologizing narratives, plays a role.
(2006: 331)
While there was seemingly widespread acceptance of gender transgression in
Southeast Asia from early modern times until colonialism (Blackwood, 2005a;
Peletz, 2006), there is arguably more transgenderism and homosexuality in contemporary Southeast Asia than ever before (Boellstorff, 2006a; Jackson, 2003a).
By drawing on Foucault (1978), Jackson (2003a) is able to show how the operation
of power was productive rather than merely repressive in respect to gender proliferation in Thailand throughout the twentieth century. In relation to sexuality,
Boellstorff (2005b) argues that gay and lesbi subjects are the greatest (unintended)
success story of the postcolonial Indonesian state, resulting in an archipelagic sense
of shared sexual similitude. Historical trajectories are thus much more complex
than a steady decline in the status and position of transgender and homosexual subjects. While this chapter presents accounts that may romanticize or alternatively
demonize the past, the intention is to explore how and why the past is now evoked
by people in Indonesian society in respect to gender.
Another difficulty of looking at the past is that what may be considered gender
transgression today may not have been considered as such in earlier periods. For
instance, de Paiva noted in 1544 that presumably male bissu, ‘dress in a womanly
fashion’ (cited in Baker, 2005: 69). In this document there is no evidence though of
whether bissu or their local contemporaries viewed bissu as being transgendered.
Connecting the past with the present thus runs the risk that subject positions will be
conflated, assuming a crossover between homosexuality, transgenderism and ritual
transgenderism. Boellstorff (2006a) poses this critique of Peletz (2006), arguing
that Peletz theoretically and substantially conflates transgender and homosexual
subject positions, more specifically the subject positions of gay and bissu.
Blackwood (2006: 326) also challenges Peletz on this point, asserting that he problematically lumps historical accounts of ritual transvestism with accounts of bisexuality and homosexuality. Blackwood argues that sexuality cannot be included
under the rubric of gender pluralism. While these points are well made, many of the
narratives provided in this chapter, including ones from the sixteenth century
through to the present, do not make a distinction between transgenderism, ritual
transvestism, bisexuality and homosexuality. Rather the meanings behind these
terms (e.g. to cross-dress, same-sex desire) are often considered interconnected, a
point Peletz (2006) makes for Southeast Asia and Sinnott (2004) also notes in
respect to popular understandings of gender and sexuality in contemporary Thai
society.
While I discussed use of the term ‘transgender’ in Chapter 1, I will make a brief
note here about the term specifically in reference to bissu and the past. Peletz (2006:
310–11) uses Ong’s (1999) reading of the prefix ‘trans’ to denote moving through
space and across lines, changing the nature of something (transformation), or going
beyond it (transcend). Johnson (2006), however, questions Peletz’s use of the
term transgendering, noting that as Southeast Asian societies had a range of gender

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positions not deemed transgressive it might be inappropriate to translate these
forms of gender pluralism as ‘transgendered.’ The use of transgender may only
make sense when there is a move away from pluralistic gender systems to fixed
dualistic ones. Moreover, Johnson posits that the people who focused most particularly on the gender and sexuality of ritual practitioners were European observers.
Johnson does, however, acknowledge that Peletz is using the ‘trans’ prefix to also
suggest transcending and crossing boundaries, not just transgression. In this sense,
ritual practitioners may have been remarkable because they were masters of the
mix, not because they were considered different to anyone else. While Peletz
(2006: 336) thinks Johnson’s latter suggestion is intriguing, he doubts the situation
was so simple, or that the only people who regarded the gender, sex and sexuality
of ritual specialists as transgressive were Europeans. Referring to ‘ritual transvestites’ by the term transgender also raises problems for Blackwood (2005a: 851),
who argues that such individuals were not permanently transgressively gendered.
It is not clear, though, why individuals must necessarily be ‘transgressively gendered’ in a consistent or permanent manner to be labelled as such.
While recent theoretical developments enable scholars to differentiate between
sexuality and gender, for many subjects these factors inflect each other, seen particularly in recollections of the past position of bissu. While I am aware of the dangers of distorting the past through discussions that merge (trans)gender and
(homo)sexuality, or view past subjects as transgendered when this may not have
been the perception at the time, my aim here is not to show that there was transgenderism in the past, or how homosexuality was viewed. Nor does this chapter intend
to give an account of what the past was like or to establish the proper relationships
between sexuality and gender. Rather, what is of interest here is the ways in
which bissu and others today consider bissu of the past in terms of gender and how
these narratives are used to affirm, or otherwise, contemporary gendered subject
positions.
A further dilemma arises in this chapter in respect to drawing on the past where
the past is potentially presented as an unchanging narrative. As Blackwood (2005a:
850) points out, it is not possible to suppose ‘the existence of a transgendered identity that transcends time and place, appearing in different guises.’ To do so would
‘assume an essentialized, cross-cultural and transhistorical transgender identity,
the evidence for which is very weak.’ In many narratives, though, bissu and others
draw on particular material precisely to assert a direct link between themselves and
the past. To affirm the authority of bissu certain rituals are presented as having been
performed in the same way for generations. I was told numerous narratives that
were framed as having been passed down orally through generations of bissu,
although there is some suggestion that many of these narratives derive from
recently published sources. While the aim of this chapter is to show how bissu and
others make use of the past, I acknowledge Blackwood’s important point and hope
to avoid uncritically regurgitating narratives of the past without attention to their
production.
This chapter is primarily about presenting information about the past and showing how notions of the past are used in the present in respect to gender. While

Gendering the present past 63
mythological recitations provide information about Bugis imaginings of their cultural past, and they are used as reference points in contemporary society, these narratives cannot be taken as accurate accounts of historical events. While oftentimes
the past to which I refer is a legendary past, at other times it is an account of an
actual historical event involving specifiable individuals. I have sought to ensure
that this difference is clearly articulated. What I am looking at in this chapter is primarily what individuals recall of the past, although I leave aside engagement with
the historiography of historical memory that has developed in recent years. I thus
separate the analysis of historical events gained through archival sources from the
analysis of myth and legend. I recognize though that people often conflate these
types of information and I endeavour to bring an analytic eye to the following discussions. However, I find ascertaining the ‘true’ origin of myths, legends and other
oral sources, or the actual nature of events in the past, less compelling than why and
how particular narratives are now retold and used.
In order to develop an awareness of how ideas of the past are employed in connection with contemporary gender issues, this chapter is divided into two main sections. The first section surveys available sources of information, including
indigenous narratives in both oral and manuscript form, colonial writings and contemporary texts. In examining this material I am interested in references to gender
and I assess how information elicited from these sources is used in reference to current notions of gender. It is important to note, however, that I do not undertake a
comprehensive or profound analysis of textual material – my contribution is made
primarily through ethnographic data, which I use to show how people utilize
gender-related historical information.
The second section analyses four past areas that portray bissu as playing central
roles: making the world blossom through androgyny; facilitating the first earthly
marriage; guarding the sacred regalia; and performing roles in the royal courts. I
examine oral and written accounts that tell of the functions bissu undertook in these
four areas. In exploring these accounts, I seek to understand how information about
bissu in the perceived past is currently manipulated and redeployed in respect to
bissu and other gendered subject positions. Drawing additionally on the work of
Idrus (2003), I also assess how imaginings of the past shape present notions of
gender.

Sources of information
Indigenous narratives
One of my fondest memories of field work is going to sleep at night, crowded six on
the bed, listening to my host-mother tell us tales of how the world began. Another
vivid memory I have is of Haji Baco’, a bissu, recounting origin narratives in a
bewildering mixture of Indonesian and Bugis. Haji Baco’ would tell these stories to
small audiences late into the night. Another occasion when oral accounts of the past
were commonly told was at the start of particular ceremonies or festivals. For
instance, once when the Governor of South Sulawesi came to Sengkang he was

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greeted by a bissu describing over a microphone for all to hear the bravery of past
Bugis people who travelled far away, but always returned to Sulawesi to be greeted
with a warm welcome. During blessing ceremonies, bissu also chant tales from a
mythological past, emphasizing their special relationship with the spirit world. At
other times, I would ask people to tell me stories of the past. Some people dismissed
my request as unimportant asking, ‘Why do you want to know about the past? In the
past people were still stupid (bodoh) and didn’t know about Islam or about being
progressive (maju).’ Others, however, enthusiastically recounted narratives of the
past with pride. Indeed, on a number of occasions informants specifically asked me
to turn on my tape-recorder so I could record the narrative properly. The people
who were most keen to recite such narratives were bissu, elderly men who were
traditional custom (adat) experts and university students who were studying local
history. As Pelras (1979) observes, whether in oral or written form, Bugis is made
to be heard.
People recount narratives about the past for a number of reasons. First and foremost, as the bedtime stories show, such tales constitute a form of entertainment.
With so much scholarly attention paid to electronic forms of entertainment it is
worth noting that in many parts of Indonesia origin narratives and other tales continue to be informally told. Second, the telling of such narratives is a way of providing continuity to contemporary life by providing a link with the past. Providing
such a link gives people a sense of place and a feeling of pride about their origins,
and this is promoted not just by individuals but also by local and state governments
keen to encourage a sense of community. Third, recitations are pedagogical. For
example, ideals of male assertiveness and bravery are reinforced through narratives
where the central protagonists travel far away to make their fortune (cf. Acciaioli,
1989; Idrus, 2003). Fourth, oral narratives are recalled in various ways to speak to
contemporary issues, such as on matters related to gender (cf. Idrus, 2003; Pelras,
1979).
Many of the narratives I heard involved great trees that refused to be chopped
down, deities moving between Upper and Lower Worlds, and epic battles won by
bissu whose weaponry was invincible. At first I could detect no common thread
running through these eclectic tales. Over time, however, I began to decipher recurring themes and take note of the central role played by ambiguously gendered
beings.
I had heard many oral narratives before I started investigating another main
source of local knowledge, that contained in indigenous manuscripts. I was excited
by the congruence of the narratives I heard with what was recorded. Initially, I
assumed that these two sources of knowledge, while having a single origin, had
passed down independently of each other. Sirtjo Koolhof (pers. comm. 2002) has
pointed out, however, that many of the oral narratives I was hearing, especially
from university students, may have come directly from recently published material
(e.g. Salim, Enre and Rahman, 1995). While in some cases there is certainly evidence for this, in other instances informants denied having access to these documents or being able to read the Indonesian in which texts were published. In cases
where an informant may have obtained the information from published works, it

Gendering the present past 65
does not render the recitation meaningless; as Acciaioli (pers. comm. 2003) points
out, alterations occur after reading in accord with local understandings and indeed
even written texts are by no means fixed since copying allows much variation
(Macknight and Caldwell, 2001). Moreover, I am interested in how notions of the
past are used in the present, not necessarily from where the information derives.
There is a long tradition of writing in South Sulawesi, predating the coming of
Islam. Writing was adopted in South Sulawesi as early as the fifteenth century
(Caldwell, 1988; Cummings, 2002, 2003), with Noorduyn (1965) noting that
indigenous documents indicate that substantive writing began sometime within
three decades after the year 1511. Hunter (1998) suggests, though, that the Bugis
script might have already been in use by the tenth century.
Drawing on Pelras (1979), Macknight (1984, 1993) and Cummings (2003)
examine the process of moving from an oral form of expression to writing extensive
compositions within the context of South Sulawesi. As Cummings (2003) notes,
there was no clear transition from orality to literacy, but rather there was continual
overlap, symbiosis and exchanges that characterized the ‘boundary’ between these
forms of information. Some texts were composed orally while others were preserved or performed orally, or a mix of all of these. Often there was no direct relationship between oral and written histories and they ‘addressed each other from a
careful distance, held in tension through an ongoing counterplay of assertion and
denial as each sought the upper hand’ (Cummings, 2003: 548). Cummings (2003)
further observes that a power play existed between those who controlled the production and dissemination of history and those who did not. Histories about the past
thus gained meaning and exerted an influence on the shape of events as desired by
those in power. As a result, discourses about the past are imbricated in all manner
of contested social relationships, hierarchies and rivalries, resulting in the past
being used to respond to present social tensions. Indeed, Koolhof (1999) shows
how elites modified Bugis manuscripts to suit contemporary needs, rather than vice
versa. It is important to keep these factors in mind when investigating deployments
of the Bugis past.
The contents of indigenous manuscripts are diverse and include everything
from vassal lists to legends about the origins of the divine ruling dynasties
whose ancestors either descended from the heavens (tomanurung, B) or sprang
up from the abyss (totompo’, B) (Pelras, 1996: 32). Koolhof reveals that
Bugis are:
proud possessors of an extensive corpus of literature of a multifarious nature
laid down in thousands of manuscripts. History, belles-lettres, mythology,
technical explications, magical formulae, medical treatises, epic poetry, and
instructions about good behaviour are only a few of the subjects to be found
within them.
(1999: 362)
Idrus (2003: 181–223) writes more extensively on the contents of indigenous
manuscripts as they relate to issues of gender and sexuality, revealing for instance

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that a woman with a dry vagina was sexually desirable and that smearing semen had
symbolic value.
Indigenous manuscripts are often stored in the homes of high-ranking nobles.
Puang Sari, who was the highest-ranking woman in Wajo’ regency, compiled a
large collection of manuscripts that she kept stored under lock and key in a large
metal filing cabinet at the back of her house compound. These manuscripts were
rarely accessed though and since her passing in 2003 relatives say the material has
become scattered throughout Sulawesi. Not only are there few people who can fluently read the Bugis script in which such documents are written, but the scripts
themselves are also considered sacred items. Puang Sari’s possession of these documents was a potent symbol of her status. A number of microfilm are also stored
outside Sulawesi, namely in Jakarta, Canberra and Leiden, largely the result of a
project jointly funded by Hassanudin University in Makassar and the Ford
Foundation.
A distinct category of Bugis narrative is found in the form of the La Galigo epic
cycle (Koolhof, 2007), so named after one of its main protagonists, I La Gailgo.
Darling (2004b) provides an easily readable synopsis of some of the epic’s stories.
According to Koolhof, La Galigo:
consists of a scattered collection of manuscripts and oral stories, which all
share the same characteristics that distinguish them from other literary genres:
they are composed in an elaborate flowery language (usually called Old
Bugis), with an abundant use of formulas, parallelisms and a strict pentasyllabic meter. Furthermore they all confine themselves to the adventures of protagonists who belong to the first six generations of human beings on earth, all
descendants of the gods in the Upper- and Underworld.
(1999: 370)
Mattulada (1993: 44) refers to La Galigo as ‘a reference book dealing with the
social and cultural background of South Sulawesi people.’ For Frye (1982: 32–3),
narratives such as those contained in La Galigo tell a society what things are important for people to know, ‘whether about its gods, its history, its laws, or its class
structure.’ La Galigo might then be regarded as what Havelock (1963: 27) calls a
‘tribal encyclopaedia’ that ‘provided a massive repository of useful knowledge, a
sort of encyclopaedia of ethics, politics, history and technology’ (cf. Koolhof,
1999: 370; Macknight, 1993). Koolhof (1999: 369) remarks, however, that La
Galigo does more than contain knowledge, ‘it portrays the very origin of their
ancestors and their ancestral customs. Regardless of whether this is a realistic
depiction of the situation in the past, for the Bugis it is at least how it should have
been, and in many respects still should be.’ The historical reality of the period
referred to in La Galigo has, though, been trenchantly deconstructed through historical and archaeological field work (Bulbeck and Caldwell, 2000).
A surprising abundance of these manuscripts survive, scattered throughout
Sulawesi and elsewhere. While there is no single author of La Galigo, and as
Macknight (2003) astutely points out it is misconceived to talk about the ‘length’ of

Gendering the present past 67
La Galigo as it was never envisaged as a collective work, if all scattered episodes were
compiled they would consist of 300,000 lines, longer even than the Mahabharata
(Pelras, 1996: 34). Indeed Lindsay (2007: 63) notes that the phrase ‘longer than the
Mahabharata’ has become a mantra, part of the vocabulary of La Galigo itself.
R. A. Kern (1939; 1954) laid down the basis for analysing this material, publishing over 1356 pages of summaries of some 31,500 pages from 113 manuscripts
(cited in Pelras, 1996: 34). Numerous other scholars have also made significant
contributions to the collection, transcription, translation and dissemination of
segments from La Galigo.6 Indeed, an entire discourse has developed around La
Galigo, particularly since Robert Wilson’s (2004) stage production I La Galigo.
Lindsay (2007) outlines many of the key themes that pre-performance publicity
stressed, including: the length of La Galigo; its antiquity (the epic is pre-Islamic, it
relates to the sacred world, to the world of bissu, and to ancient rituals of Bugis);
notions of loss, obscurity and threat (the epic and the world of bissu are almost forgotten); and the epic’s discovery and salvation (the epic is being brought to world
attention by someone the world pays attention to).
While La Galigo was never ‘composed’, various dates have been suggested for
when it began to take shape (Koolhof, 1999: 379, fn. 12). Ambo Enre (1983: 31)
and Pelras (1996: 56) argue that La Galigo began orally around the mid-fourteenth
century. Nyompa (1992: 29) suggests the ninth or tenth century, a date similar to
that of the Old Javanese Ramayana, as the time of its conception. Koolhof (1999:
379–80, fn. 12), however, asserts, ‘The manuscripts extant today are no older than
approximately two centuries, and the majority of them are no older than 100–150
years. The oldest dateable La Galigo manuscript is kept in the Stads-of
Atheneumbibliotheek, Deventer, and was obtained in 1784.’ Macknight (2006:
143) also doubts that much was written down before 1700 and comments that most
manuscript texts are probably newer. Indeed, some of the episodes involve the hero
Sawérigading going to Mecca (Suyono, 2003) and the dead being buried rather than
cremated (Koolhof, 1999), both of which suggest Islamic influence.
There is much debate about the origin of La Galigo. Pelras (1996: 56–7) maintains that the La Galigo epic is the work of bissu; Hamonic (1987a: 29) concurs with
this. Koolhof (pers. comm. 2002) and Macknight (1993: 25–37) dispute this claim.
My own research, although not focusing on the issue of the origin of La Galigo,
suggests that there is at least a close connection between bissu and the epic. While
I found that noble elites possess the largest collection of manuscripts, bissu are
occasionally sought after to read these documents and interpret their meaning.
Indeed, one bissu, Haji Yamin, was flown to France a number of decades ago:
When I was in France [translating part of the La Galigo manuscript], well, if
there was something I didn’t know, or I didn’t have an answer for, I said ‘wait
a minute’, then I lit some leaves (daun) and called the deities (dewata) and they
told me the answer. I didn’t even need a pen, my source was dewata.
(Haji Yamin)
That Haji Yamin was specifically sought after to go to France confirms for hir
the proposition that bissu are intimately bound to the legacy of La Galigo and,

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moreover, that bissu are generally considered experts in understanding La Galigo
manuscripts (cf. Pelras 1979). Haji Yamin is able to draw on this example to assert
a link between bissu and the spirit world, and to emphasize the important role bissu
play in connecting the past with the present. Additionally, bissu Puang Matoa Saidi
was flown to the Netherlands in 2004 where, possessed by a spirit associated with
a particular Bugis manuscript held at Leiden University, brought the manuscript up
to hir eyes, appeared to dry hir tears with it, and gave an impassioned recitation,
while the horrified librarian looked on at the treatment of the singular text (Cohen,
2005: 148). Of course, Haji Yamin’s proposition or Puang Matoa Saidi’s reading of
a Bugis manuscript do not confirm a wider link between bissu and La Galigo, nor
that bissu are generally experts in reading La Galigo material. What my general
field work does suggest, however, is that bissu actively call upon La Galigo narratives to establish a respected position in Bugis society.
Some bissu also have their own collections of indigenous manuscripts, further
linking them with the La Galigo tradition. Having access to such manuscripts, and
an ability to read them, provides bissu with a level of power in the form of knowledge. Haji Baco’ has a small collection of materials that are exhibited when s/he is
performing a ceremony. Similarly, when bestowing a blessing, Mariani invariably
pulls out a bound Bugis manuscript, which s/he claims is 700 years old – see Parker
(2002a) for an interesting discussion on rituals preceding the reading of sacred
manuscripts in Bali. During the 2004 performance of Robert Wilson’s play I La
Galigo, bissu Puang Matoa Saidi sat onstage reciting La Galigo material. While
debate continues about the nature of the cycle (Macknight, 2003), there is a strong
connection between La Galigo material and bissu: bissu are mentioned in the stories; bissu are asked to read and translate manuscripts; bissu have collections of
manuscripts; and bissu use La Galigo narratives to affirm a position in society.
While mention of bissu in indigenous narratives is not infrequent, these documents are, to my knowledge, silent on calabai and calalai. This silence leaves open
the possibility that calalai and calabai are more recent subject positions than bissu.
It could mean, though, that the position of calalai and calabai was never documented. As Acciaioli (pers. comm. 2003) notes, most history focuses on aspects of
concern to the higher classes so one would expect less recorded information on
roles among the lower strata of society. While Hamonic (1977a: 39, 41–2, 46)
posits that in the social arena there was little difference between bissu, calabai and
calalai (cited in L. Andaya, 2000: 42), the lack of available information makes such
an assumption a somewhat bold one. Certainly, the status of bissu was high because
of their spiritual role in the community (L. Andaya, 2000: 42). Regardless of actual
reality, the current recognition of the role and status of bissu in Bugis South
Sulawesi, both in the past and present, suggests that there may have been tolerance
for gender diversity in the past and, as Boon (1990) notes, mythology allows for
certain forms of imagining to occur in the present.
The validity of using La Galigo as a source of reliable data about the past was
hotly contested at the 2002 La Galigo Conference held in South Sulawesi (Rahman,
Hukma and Anwar, 2003). Numerous other scholars have also discussed the difficulty of using documents that are mythical and fictional in nature in order to seek

Gendering the present past 69
images of the past (B. W. Andaya, 2000b; Bulbeck and Caldwell, 2000; Creese,
2001; Wiener, 1995), as well as concomitant surrounding issues of the construction
of knowledge, particularly indigenous knowledge (Dirks, 1992; Thomas, 1994;
Wiener, 1995). Yet while scholars may dismiss the cycle as pure legend, the fact
that it is invoked in Bugis South Sulawesi is sufficient for a claim to be made that it
contributes to contemporary conceptions of gender (cf. Idrus, 2003). By analysing
indigenous narratives, whether in manuscript or oral form, it is possible to recreate
an image of the past where androgynous beings played a central role in society. By
additionally looking at what people today tell about the past and how the past is
used to legitimate, or at least allow conceptual space for, gender multiplicity this
chapter explores how understandings of the Bugis past are deployed in various
ways to influence present notions of Bugis gender.
Colonial writings and contemporary texts
Other sources of information available on the South Sulawesi past are the writings
of early explorers and colonialists, and the work of contemporary scholars. The
early modern European repugnance for lesbians (tommies, sapphists) and homosexual males (mollies, sodomites) (Trumbach, 1994) may account in part for the
fact that Portuguese explorers in the sixteenth century, and officials of the Dutch
East India company (VOC) in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, rarely
recorded any observations of bissu, calabai or calalai (L. Andaya, 2000: 38; cf.
Murray, 1997b: 161). However, where there was evidence, which observers may
just have missed, Europeans tended to report, in shocked tones, ‘deviant’ behaviours (cf. Besnier, 1994: 294). For instance, Acciaioli (pers. comm. 2005) reveals
that Valentijn (1726) wrote about lenda (similar to calalai) in Kaili in Central
Sulawesi. Colonial accounts are nevertheless problematic because the information
is presented through a Western gaze, often telling more about the authors than the
events they were observing, something Bacigalupo (2004b) discusses further in
respect to shamans in Chile.
There are very few available sources on pre-1600 South Sulawesi, although there
is an increasing repertoire of information on archaeological findings in the region
(Bulbeck, 1992; Bulbeck and Caldwell, 2000; Macknight, 1979, 1983). The first
Portuguese eye-witness account is given by the merchant Antonio de Paiva, who
visited the region in 1542–3, and returned again in 1544 (see Jacobs, 1966; cf.
Pelras, 1996: 35). Baker (2005) has recently published an English version of a letter de Paiva wrote that refers to such matters as political alliances, funerary practices and the conversion of people in South Sulawesi to Christianity. While Tomé
Pires (1944) recorded direct experiences in other regions between 1512–15, Pelras
(1996: 35) notes that he recorded only indirect information on South Sulawesi. A
second eye-witness account is from Manuel Pinto (1583 [1989]), who resided in
Sulawesi from 1545 until 1548 (cf. Wicki, 1955). At the turn of the seventeenth
century, Diego de Couto (1973; see a part translation by Hadimuljono and
Macknight 1983: 69) and Manuel Godinho de Eredia (1930) recorded general
observations of the region. There is, however, no extensive documentation of South

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Gendering the present past

Sulawesi by foreigners until the arrival of the Dutch in 1605, shortly followed by
the English (Pelras, 1996: 34–5). Available material includes extensive documentation made by the Dutch and the observations recorded by various explorers,
administrators and missionaries (e.g. Brooke, 1848; Collins, 1937; Crawfurd,
1820; Forrest, 1792; Friedericy, 1932, 1933; Gervaise, 1971[1701]; Matthes, 1872;
Valentijn, 1726). While these accounts provide interesting material on the social
structure at the time they were recorded, and they provide information on gender
relations, very little material concerns bissu and there is nothing on calalai or calabai. Indeed, apart from de Paiva, who mentions bissu in some detail, it was not
until the nineteenth century that renowned Dutch linguist B. F. Matthes (1872)
recorded specific information about bissu.
Around the middle of last century H. Th. Chabot (1996[1950]) conducted one of
the most comprehensive early studies of gender in South Sulawesi. While his
observations of gender relations provide a wealth of information, which I use particularly in Chapter 5, his analysis of categories such as bissu is rather superficial
due in large part to the paucity of theoretical resources available. For instance,
Chabot refers to J. A. Slot (1935) who ‘examined a number of these bissu for their
physical characteristics’ and reported that ‘their sexual organs were completely
normal; there was no question of hermaphroditism. A number of secondary sex
characteristics can be called feminine. Among these he [Slot] reports a hyperextendibility of the elbow, little muscular development, and broad hips’ (Chabot,
1996[1950]: 192). Similarly, the influence of Kinsey, Pomeroy and Marbin (1948)
encouraged the placement of bissu within a section on sexuality entitled
‘Phenomena of Maladjustment: Homosexuality’ (Chabot, 1996[1950]: 187–94).
Chabot offers little in the way of social analysis of bissu in non-sexual/biological
terms; he does, however, offer insights into the position of bissu. A contemporary
of Chabot, Kennedy (1953) makes brief mention of tjelebei (calabai).
French scholar Gilbert Hamonic (1975, 1977a, 1977b, 1987a, 1987b, 1988,
2002, 2004, 2006, 2008) has conducted extensive historical research on bissu, primarily examining chants and customs. Christian Pelras’ book The Bugis (1996)
incorporates segments devoted to gender and the Bugis past. Indeed, Pelras writes
not only on bissu, but also on calalai and calabai. Adding additional information to
understandings of Bugis gender in the past is the work of Susan Millar (1983, 1989)
and Nurul Ilmi Idrus (2003).
Leonard Andaya (2000) has written an informative article that deals extensively
with historical matters, especially in relation to bissu. In a more recent article,
Andaya (2004) draws on sources from the sixteenth to the twentieth centuries to
reconstruct the nature of war and peace in South Sulawesi. Andaya (2004: 54)
records that while Dutch colonialists were principally concerned with demonstrating the effectiveness of their military campaigns against local kingdoms, Bugis and
Makassar accounts record heroic figures. These latter accounts give great emphasis to the motivations for warfare with a focus on cultural concepts of shame (siri’),
commiseration and solidarity (pesse), and on the maintenance or restoration of
proper relationships within the human community and between states. Andaya
further comments that for Bugis and Makassar a battle was fought simultaneously

Gendering the present past 71
on the human and spiritual fronts, where powerful spirits, including those of ancestors, were summoned before combat to intervene and assure victory. The necessity
of spiritual elements in winning a war made bissu a highly valued resource.
Through analysing and assessing the information that can be obtained from
indigenous narratives, and colonial and contemporary writings, it is possible to
envisage a past in which androgynous beings were seen as a fundamental part of
Bugis society. From such a perspective, the relationships between contemporary
Bugis society, with its attendant modernizing agents that arguably seek to homogenize and dimorphize the gender system, and gender diversity can be better appreciated. Drawing on aspects of this past, both real and envisaged, bissu, calabai and
calalai are able to lay claim to particular positions in current society.

Past genders
Many Bugis acknowledge the power invested in androgynous beings. One way to
understand why androgynous beings are considered powerful is to examine information that focuses on the past. While it is impossible to make factual claims about
what society was like, it is possible to argue that acknowledgement of the past status of bissu provides some space for their contemporary position. I have selected
four broad areas on which to centre my analysis. These areas were selected because
they are considered contexts in which bissu played key roles. Moreover, these roles
are mentioned in indigenous narratives and in colonial and contemporary accounts.
Making the world blossom through androgyny
Bugis possess an intricate mythological heritage and everyday stories from this
envisaged past are related for the purposes of entertainment and conveying certain
ideals such as desirable masculine and feminine qualities (Idrus, 2003). One of the
most popular narratives involves the creation of the world. When I asked bissu
Mariani how the world came to be as it is, s/he responded:
You ask how this world came to be? Well, let me tell you. Up there in the heavens, Patoto’é decided s/he wanted to bring life to this lonely world. Patoto’é
lived with hir following of deities in the heavenly world. The smartest deity
(dewata), Batara Guru, was sent down to earth (tomanurung, B). But Batara
Guru wasn’t good at organizing things. To do this, two beings with special
powers were needed. So Patoto’é sent down two bissu, and they stood next to
Batara Guru as he descended to earth. One of them was called Anurungeng
Tellinoé, the brave bissu. Before they came down to this world, there was nothing here. It was the task of bissu to fill this world, and they had to arrange everything. Batara Guru was like a god; he didn’t have a specific role, he was more
like a manager. Bissu set about making everything bloom (berkembang); they
created language, medicine, culture, customs and all the things a world needs
if it’s going to bloom. Bissu organized the creation of this world. That’s how
the world began, you see. Now you know why bissu are so important. They

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came down with Batara Guru and carried all of the important materials, all of
the sacred regalia (arajang, B). Bissu were the chosen ones because they’re
very powerful (sakti). Bissu are very sakti because they are not male and they
are not female. They’re a mix.
(Mariani)

Mariani enthusiastically articulates this widely known narrative, which is part of
the La Galigo master narrative, in order to lay claim to the auspicious lineage of
bissu (cf. Koolhof, 1999: 368–9; Salim et al., 1995). Patoto’é (the one who destines
fate) was considered to be the ruler of the top layer of the Upper World (Boting
Langi’, B) (Koolhof, 1999: 368). As a sign of the syncretic nature of bissu practices,
Mariani told me that Patoto’é is now commonly known as Allah. The importance
of bissu being a combination of female and male is expressly emphasized in this
narrative. This union suggests that bissu embody qualities of both beings, for
instance female creativity and male strength. Mariani mentions that bissu are ‘not
male and they’re not female.’ What is implied in this statement is that bissu are neither completely female, nor completely male. Rather, bissu are a powerful combination of aspects of both. Another narrative that bissu utilize in justifying their
contemporary subject position involves the Creator hirself:
In ancient Bugis creation myths the creator is an androgynous deity who gives
birth to a male sun and a female moon. A quarrel occurs between the two, and
they will not cohabit. While both are capable of self-impregnation, the sun cannot reproduce, and it is the moon who gives birth to the stars, certain metals
(gold, iron), and to the first generations of ‘monstrous’ plants, animals and
other creatures . . . Among the forty deities created was the deity of the tree,
who is regarded as the initiator of the bissu. A reconciliation between the sun
and the moon occurs soon after the latter’s various creations appear. This leads
to a division of power and a union of the two, from which come the gods who
are celebrated in the I La Galigo. The Bugis cosmogonic myth counts the bissu
among the ‘monstrous’ creations replete with sacred powers.
(L. Andaya, 2000: 35)
We see further in this passage the centrality and power of androgyny, a theme common throughout eastern Indonesia, possibly forming part of what Macknight (pers.
comm. 2008) calls the Austronesian heritage. Acciaioli (pers. comm. 2003) also
points out that the combining of male and female elements in accounts of bissu is
likely to have an Austronesian basis given the occurrence of those symbolic elements in remote parts of Kalimantan and eastern Indonesia with little HinduBuddhist influence. Hoskins (1987, 1990), for example, conducted research on
cosmological systems in eastern Indonesia finding that individuals are created initially by a double gendered supreme being. While there is certainly HinduBuddhist inflection in the bissu role, for example the term bissu is cognate with
the Buddhist term bhikshu for priest or beggar (Jacobs, 1966: 290, fn. 85), there
has been a tendency to overplay the influence of Hinduism/Buddhism in Sulawesi
(e.g. Errington, 1989).

Gendering the present past 73
The above passage also highlights the incredible fertility the moon has contained
within her. Unlike the moon, whose fertility is celebrated here, I did not hear narratives suggesting bissu embodied fertility, although bissu are frequently called upon
to confer fertility blessings. There are then some parallels with hijra in India who,
through emasculation procedures, are able to bestow their forsaken fertility upon
others (Nanda, 1990; Reddy, 2005).
Drawing on such mythological narratives where androgyny is a central feature
assists bissu in asserting a position in contemporary Bugis society. This contrasts
with Judeo-Christian origin narratives in which the gender binary is clearly
enforced (Ramet, 1996). Moreover, reference to androgynous beings that occupied
a position of high status and power provides conceptual space to imagine subject
positions outside dualistic models.
Facilitating marriage
Bissu have long played real and imagined roles in Bugis weddings and marriages.
These roles provide a strong foundation from which bissu assert their contemporary social legitimacy. One specific mythological narrative that bissu draw on
involves the population of the middle world (Alé Kawa, B). In order to legitimately
populate Alé Kawa, a marriage needed to take place between two fecund deities. In
the following account told to me by a lecturer at Hassanudin University, possibly
derived from published La Galigo material but with a few embellishments, we hear
of this process. While as Koolhof (pers. comm. 2002) notes it would be beneficial
to compare the oral narratives I heard with what is published (e.g. Ambo Enre,
1983, 1999; Koolhof, 1999; Pelras, 1996: 89; Tol, 1996: 223), here I am not so concerned with congruence but rather with what is publicly recited and why:
There were three levels of the universe. First, Boting Langi’ (B); this was the
top world. Second, Ale’ Kawa; this was the middle world. Third, Uri’ Liu (B);
this was the bottom world. The name of the first god was Patoto’é. Patoto’é
lived in the first world and he had a child called Batara Guru. Guru ri Selle’ and
Sinau’ Toja were husband and wife, and they ruled the Lower World. They had
a daughter called Wé Nyili’ Timo’. She was the cousin of Batara Guru. The
middle world was empty, so Batara Guru was sent down to the middle world
with two bissu. It was very quiet. Batara Guru’s parents wanted to populate the
middle world, but, of course, Batara Guru needed a wife, so Wé Nyili’ Timo’
was lifted to the middle world and arose from the sea. In Bugis, rising from the
sea is called tompo’. As she arose, Batara Guru came to get her, but she resisted and didn’t want to go to the shore. She didn’t want to marry Batara Guru.
What could they do? We’ Nyili’ Timo’ had to marry Batara’ Guru or the middle world would remain empty. What were they to do? It was up to bissu. Bissu
were the only ones who could help because they are holy people (panrita, B).
So bissu worked their magic (ilmu) so Wé Nyili’ Timo’ would want to go
ashore. But going ashore wasn’t enough. Wé Nyili’ Timo’ had to desire (nafsu)
Batara Guru. After bissu performed the ceremony so that Wé Nyili’ Timo’

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Gendering the present past
would go ashore, they performed their magic so she would desire Batara Guru.
They concocted a love potion (jimat). This consisted of arranging for Batara
Guru to give Wé Nyili’ Timo’ bridewealth (mahar). But not just any gifts, the
gifts were sompa to selli’ (B, the highest form of marriage gift). After Wé
Nyili’ Timo’ was given all of this, she accepted Batara Guru’s proposal. Bissu
then made all the arrangements for their wedding.
(Pak Andung, middle-aged Bugis man)

This narrative is instructive because it points to the important role bissu play in
facilitating heterosexual marriage. Wé Nyili’ Timo’ did not want to marry Batara
Guru, and not even the gods were powerful enough to induce the marriage. Indeed
Bugis brides are always supposed to feign resistance (Idrus, 2003). In this narrative
bissu convince the bride to marry, proving that they have the skills, knowledge and
power to orchestrate a wedding. Parker (pers. comm. 2002) notes that this account
makes an interesting site for feminist analysis because Wé Nyili’ Timo’ has no
choice other than to marry. However, this narrative also offers the possibility of an
alternative reading of women exercising agency, for instance Wé Nyili’ Timo’
demanded special attention, in this case in the form of gifts, before she would agree
to marriage.
The mythical narrative offered below, told to me by bissu Haji Baco’, tells again
of bissu playing an essential role in bringing about a marriage. While recounted
orally, this tale is a central core of La Galigo (Abidin, 1974) and versions of it are
widely known in South and Central Sulawesi (Acciaioli, pers. comm. 2003):
The son of Batara Guru and Wé Nyili’ Timo’, Sawérigading was his name,
wanted to marry Wé Tenriabéng. But they were twins so Wé Tenriabéng said
to Sawérigading, ‘There is someone who is just as beautiful as I am, she lives
across the sea and her name is Wé Cudai’.’ So Sawérigading decided he would
cross the water and marry Wé Cudai’. But how could he cross the sea when
there was no boat? But there was a massive tree called Wélenréngngé and
Sawérigading thought he could cut it down and make a boat. But try as he
might, he couldn’t cut down the tree. Sawérigading cried. For three months no
one would cut down the tree. They were all too scared. Sawérigading broke 40
axes trying to fell the tree. He sacrificed 40 female virgins and 40 male virgins
and soaked the tree in their blood. But still the tree didn’t fall. Finally, after all
this time, a being appeared who was capable of cutting down the tree. The
name given to this being was bissu because s/he was neither a man nor a
woman (bukan laki-laki dan bukan perempuan). This was fated by the heavens
(kodrat dari langit). The heavens said that the one who will be able to cut down
the tree will be neither man nor woman. When the bissu came down, it was
very dark and the bissu was also dark (gelap) so no one could see hir cut down
the tree. The bissu wore men’s clothes, but women’s make-up. After the tree
was cut, it became very light and the bissu returned to the heavens. The bissu
was called Angkuru Tebbang. Everything was loaded into the boat. The boat
was large enough to contain seven markets (pasar). Wé Tenriabéng went to the

Gendering the present past 75
heavens and her brother, Sawérigading, boarded the boat to go to Wajo’.
Seeing Wé Cudai”s immense beauty, Sawérigading proposed. The name of
their first son is I La Galigo.
(Haji Baco’)
The above narrative reveals again the central role bissu are thought to play in bringing about a marriage. Wé Tenriabéng and Sawérigading were twins and therefore it
was not possible for them to marry. Bali provides an interesting analogy here
because as Parker (pers. comm. 2002) points out origin narratives there are often of
male-female twins who are considered highly auspicious, although dangerous (cf.
Belo, 1970; Boon, 1990: 223–33; Ong and Peletz, 1995). Haji Baco’ above mentions a very large tree called Wélenréngngé. Hamonic (1987a, 1987b: 156–8, 223)
notes that large trees have long been venerated in Bugis belief systems, especially
those with 40 or more branches. Indeed, 40 is a most auspicious number and 40
bissu are considered ideal for important ceremonies (cf. L. Andaya, 2004: 67;
Lathief, 2004: 49, 81 fn. 1). The bissu who finally managed to cut down the tree is
referred to as Angkuru Tebbang. Koolhof (pers. comm. 2002) comments that
‘angkuru’ means ‘famous’ and ‘tebbang’ means ‘cut down’ and he suggests that
Angkuru Tebbang probably refers to Wé Tenriabéng, who was actually known as a
bissu (cf. Darling, 2004b). The couple have a son, I La Galigo, and after Wé Cudai
gets pregnant again her husband Sawérigading expresses a desire for a daughter
who will become a bissu. Their daughter Wé Tenridio is born in the full regalia of
bissu (Darling, 2004b: 29).
In the two tales told above by Pak Andung and Haji Baco’, bissu facilitated the
marriage of Batara Guru and Wé Nyili’ Timo’, and Wé Cudai and Sawérigading.
No one else was capable of bringing the couples together, either emotionally (e.g.
without bissu intervention the bride would not have desired the groom and, therefore, the wedding would not have proceeded) or physically (e.g. only a bissu could
cut down the tree to make the boat). Bissu were able to achieve these outcomes
because they combine the powers of female and male in one entity. By exploiting
such narratives, bissu assert an important role and position within current Bugis
society.
While the above two accounts are located in the Bugis mythological past, bissu
continue to be known for their role in fostering and restoring marital alliances, in
part by concocting love magic. In contemporary Bugis society, there are many
urban legends about a recalcitrant spouse being brought back home on his or her
knees, professing undying love for his or her jilted partner, due to bissu intervention
– although, as Koolhof (pers. comm. 2002) points out, this particular role is not
unique to bissu and healers (sanro) often perform this role. There are also stories
told of couples falling in love due to a bissu’s magic love potion. Furthermore, people are occasionally warned not to be alone in a room with a bissu because the latter will cast a love spell and make the unsuspecting person fall madly in love with
hir. Once under a bissu spell, it is said that the individual loses all autonomy and
lives only to serve the desires and wishes of the bissu. These desires and wishes
include running errands, providing companionship and may extend to favours of a

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sexual nature, although as bissu are generally imagined to be pure (suci), they must
give the appearance of being chaste and celibate.
Once a marriage alliance has been formed, bissu continue to play a role by acting
as functionaries at the wedding. To this day, many weddings, especially those of
high-status couples, are partly organized and consecrated by bissu. For example,
the wedding of the daughter of the (Bugis) Mayor of East Jakarta, which was
attended by then President B. J. Habibie, was consecrated by two bissu. These two
bissu were responsible for dictating how parts of the wedding ought to take place
(for a fuller discussion of this weddings see Davies, 2007a). The constant inclusion
of bissu in narratives concerning Bugis weddings attests not only to the centrality
of marriage in Bugis society both past and present, but also to the key roles bissu
undertake at these events. The tasks assigned bissu in both marriage ceremonies
and wedding celebrations are dependent on their androgynous embodiment
and bissu continue to draw upon this special composition to locate a position in
contemporary social life.
Guarding the sacred regalia
In claiming respect within contemporary society, bissu also recount narratives that
place them as caretakers and protectors of sacred regalia, known as arajang (B). In
a material sense, arajang consist of items considered significantly potent, for
instance ceremonial swords (kris), small knives (badi’, B), spears, lances, ornaments made of gold and other esteemed materials, flags and additional emblematic
cloths and sacred ploughs. In the town of Segeri, a sacred plough is housed in the
Bola Ridié (B, Yellow House), also known as the Bola Arajang (B, Regalia House),
and ceremonies are frequently performed in its honour. Arajang differ, however,
from gaukeng (B), which are usually odd shaped stones considered sacred
(Macknight, 1993; Rössler, 2000; Tol, 1996). As Acciaioli (pers. comm. 2003)
notes, arajang tend to have royal connections and be associated with larger domains,
while gaukeng are associated with the gentry of smaller localities (e.g. wanua, B).
Arajang are considered incredibly potent, a belief that stems in part from their
auspicious origins. Rössler (2000: 162) writes that, ‘As a general pattern all over
South Sulawesi, sacred heirlooms are believed to have originated from divine
rulers who descended from heaven’ (cf. Cummings, 2007: 30). Andaya (2000: 35)
further comments that along with the first white-blooded rulers (toma’dara takku’,
B), arajang descended from the Upper World guarded by bissu. Some informants,
however, told different accounts of how arajang came to be on earth. For instance,
a Bugis man named Pak Andung reveals:
There was once a Luwu’ princess called Wé Tappacinna who was not yet married. She really wanted to bathe in the sea, but she was forbidden. She cried and
cried into the sea until the tears coming from her eyes turned to blood.
Eventually, she sank into the ground and sank through the water until she
reached the Lower World. She was trapped there for seven days. Eventually she
resurfaced accompanied by two bissu and their large array of sacred arajang.
(Pak Andung)

Gendering the present past 77
The following narrative, told to me by a high-ranking Bugis man named Andi
Galib, reveals that arajang are still considered significant by many people:
Bupati (regional governors) have always respected our traditions. But we’ve
just got a new bupati [mid-1990s] and he doesn’t respect the past at all. He
came here with his modern ideas and wanted to get rid of all our history . . .
even get rid of our adat (traditional customs). But all this started before he was
even installed (mallawolo, B). You see, if a raja, or a bupati as they’re called
now, wants to be installed, then he has to have the support of bissu, and bissu
have to perform their ceremonies. If the ceremonies aren’t performed then he
doesn’t really become bupati. So you know what this arrogant (sombong)
bupati did? He said he didn’t want any bissu performing anything at his installation ceremony. You know what I said then? And I said this to this great man,
‘Well, if you won’t include bissu and honour our adat, then I won’t give you the
sacred yellow umbrella, then you can’t become raja.’ He knew he needed to
have the arajang or no one would respect him. So he said alright, bissu can
perform.
(Andi Galib)
Andi Galib is a strong advocate of Bugis adat and in order to ensure that customary
practices were followed (in this instance, bissu performing their rituals at an installation ceremony), Andi Galib played his trump card, the sacred yellow umbrella.
Andi Galib was in possession of this umbrella partly because he is of noble descent
and thus has access to arajang (cf. Rössler, 2000). Andi Galib is also an avid collector of Bugis material culture and he runs a small museum. While originally the
raja would have been in possession of the umbrella (where it was protected by
bissu), due to the changing political structure Andi Galib is now able to display it
along with other arajang in the museum. Andi Galib mentioned that in every small
village, people of noble descent still possess some form of arajang and conduct arajang festivals. Andi Galib knew that if the bupati was not in possession of the
umbrella his authority to rule would be undermined and people would not respect
him. Indeed, disputes over regalia are also common in other places in Indonesia,
such as Bali. For instance, war may break out over possession of a particularly
sacred kris (e.g. the war of Ki Lobar), because the kris must be in possession of its
rightful owner (Wiener, 1995: 67). Legitimacy of ownership is thus important.
Moreover, as the former example reveals, arajang is significant in supporting a
ruler’s authority.
While the above narrative attests to the importance of arajang in validating political power, there is debate as to the actual power of arajang. Some people consider
the power of arajang to be so great that without them, a ruler’s power (kekuasaan)
would be severely undermined (see Harvey, 1978: 18–19; L. Andaya, 1975: 120;
Reid, 1998: 146–7). Rössler (2000), though, is doubtful arajang ever had the
ability to confer power. Similarly, Errington (1989: 125) asserts that the power
attributed to arajang is overemphasized, and possession of it alone could not make
someone powerful enough to be a leader.

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There seems to be here some misinterpretation of the notion of power and authority. Rather than centring debate around differentiating actual power (i.e. that a kris
can actually make someone a ruler) from imagined power, we need to distinguish
degrees of perceived power (Parker, pers. comm. 2003). While local rulers in 1932
and contemporary bupati would still have their title bestowed without, for instance,
the yellow umbrella, arajang are important markers of their authority to rule. If a
ruler is not in possession of arajang his or her legitimacy to govern is questioned –
I use his or her here to indicate that men and women assume positions of political
power in South Sulawesi and indeed Cummings (2003: 540) notes that it was a
woman that became the first karaeng (ruler) of Gowa (see also Brooke, 1848: 75;
Crawfurd, 1820: 164). Arajang may not give any individual the right to rule, but
without arajang a ruler’s authority is undermined. As Claire Holt (1939: 27–8),
who did research in Sulawesi in the 1930s, recorded, ‘Without these important heirlooms [arajang] their [the rulers of Boné and Goa] authority as rulers could not be
complete.’
Another important aspect in considering arajang is the connection between
arajang and a ruler’s degree of white blood; the higher the concentration
of white blood, the higher a person’s status (cf. Errington, 1983, 1989: 125–6;
Mattulada, 1977: 62; Rössler, 2000: 164–5). Only individuals with white
blood can legitimately lay claim to arajang, a claim that reinforces their right to
rule.
Arajang clearly constitute an important aspect of Bugis social life. As such, it is
vital that arajang are well protected. The individuals deemed most able to safeguard
the arajang’s well-being were, and frequently continue to be, bissu (cf. Hamonic,
1987a, 1987b: 167; Harvey, 1978: 18–19; Mackenzie, 1994: 159; Millar, 1989:
216). Bissu themselves often talk about their role in protecting arajang. We see this
in the following narratives told to me by two bissu:
Bissu were instructed [by the raja and by the gods] to protect and guard the arajang . . . this is why they lived in the palace with the raja. Without the arajang,
no ruler could rule. Bissu are very important, aren’t they? Without bissu to protect the arajang, anyone could have stolen them and taken over power. Bissu
are still important today. We protect the arajang.
(Mariani)
Well, you know, you’re not a raja if there’s no bissu, and you know, you’re not
bissu if there’s no raja. To be a raja, you have to wear the ceremonial knife
(kris) and chain (rantai) and be circled by bissu. And there are two bracelets
(pottonaga, B) and one is worn by the raja and the other one by the head of the
bissu. If an ordinary bissu puts it on, the bracelet will fly off. You can only
become raja with the support of bissu.
(Haji Baco’)
Both of these accounts place great importance on the role of bissu in projecting arajang. Bissu are considered ideal candidates to protect arajang for two main reasons.

Gendering the present past 79
First, bissu embody male and female elements and this imbues them with incredible powers. It is not exceptional to have androgynous beings responsible for guarding the palace and its regalia. Mackenzie (1994: 37) notes that in Tana Towa, South
Sulawesi, alakaya, or court priests, were ‘like their famous Bugis counterparts the
Bissu, transvestites who resided in the court, guarding the sacred royal regalia and
presiding over the most important state rituals. These priests were capable of making shamanistic journeys to the world of the spirits and ancestors and could also be
possessed by spirits’ (cf. Hamonic, 1987b: 165, 178, 213). As Mackenzie (1994:
37, fn. 52) further argues, the ritual authority and status of the alakaya probably
derived from their combination of male and female qualities. Second, bissu can
communicate with spirits. This is particularly important because arajang become
inhabited by spirits during ceremonies and bissu are the only ones who can call the
spirits down to earth and mediate between arajang and people. Because arajang are
inhabited by dewata (deity) they need exceptional care, such as to be specially
washed and cleaned. On one particular Idul Adha (16 March 2001), a Muslim festival that takes place around the time of the hajj, I attended the ritual cleaning of arajang at the old Makassar palace (istana). There were a lot of men each cleaning a
specific piece of arajang. When they were all clean, a young man approached on
hands and knees and accepted the sword and crown on a pillow and crawled back.
Then in a line the men took the arajang into a special room where the items were
blessed by the princess and locked in a safe in her bedroom. While there were no
bissu present, female spiritual leaders sang mantra in a monotone voice encouraging spirits (roh) to enter the arajang. Women do occasionally play an important role
in maintaining arajang. A number of years ago at the Bola Ridié regalia house in
Soppeng, for instance, the head bissu was mysteriously abducted – it is said that hir
body flew out of hir clothes – and the person who then took over guarding the Bola
Ridié and its arajang was a woman.
In a sense, arajang and bissu transcend the human world and signify the link
between the nobility and the deities of the Upper World. The symbiotic relationship
of the raja and bissu is demonstrated poignantly through control of the arajang. The
sacred nature of arajang helps ensure that those entrusted with safeguarding them,
who by necessity have to combine the powers of female and male, are accorded a
respected position in society. Not only does this guardianship role provide bissu
with a place in Bugis South Sulawesi, for some people it also fosters tolerance and
respect for gender diversity.
Bissu and royal courts
Bissu have played key roles within Bugis royal courts since at least 1544 (Jacobs,
1966; Baker, 2005). Until the middle of the twentieth century, when the royal
courts were officially disbanded, bissu were found serving as advisors and as
keepers of arajang (L. Andaya, 2000: 36). Bissu also served as guards protecting
the palace. Bissu performed life cycle rituals for the nobility, a factor that further
links bissu to the noble class. The importance of these roles gained bissu considerable respect, and bissu still refer to these roles in order to assert a respected position

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in contemporary society. In this section, I analyse a number of narratives from
informants and published material outlining various roles bissu assumed in royal
courts.
One of the earliest historical accounts that mention bissu comes from a
Portuguese merchant, Antonio de Paiva, who visited the peninsula in the sixteenth
century. De Paiva referred to bissu as ‘priests of the king’ and described bissu as
magicians who behaved and dressed like women; it was believed that a man could
not be a medium through which the spirits speak. In a letter written in 1544, de
Paiva wrote:
. . . I remembered a very serious thing. And although the words are neither suitable nor acceptable to your magnificent ears, allow with patience the report of
them, for it is fruit of the Holy Spirit. Your Lordship will know that the priests
of these kings are generally called bissus. They grow no hair on their beards,
dress in a womanly fashion, and grow their hair long and braided; they imitate
(women’s) speech because they adopt all of the female gestures and inclinations. They marry and are received, according to the custom of the land, with
other common men, and they live indoors, uniting carnally in their secret
places with the men who they have for husbands. This is public [knowledge],
and not just around here, but on account of the same mouths which Our Lord
has given to proclaim his praise. These priests, if they touch a woman in
thought or deed, are boiled in tar because they hold that all their religion would
be lost if they did it; and they have their teeth covered in gold. And as I say to
Your Lordship, I went with this very sober thought, amazed [that] Our Lord
would destroy those three cities of Sodom for the same sin and considering
how a destruction had not come over such a wanton people as these in such a
long time and what was there to do, for the whole land was encircled by evil.
(Baker, 2005: 68)
De Paiva clearly mentions the close connection between royalty and bissu, all the
while annunciating his own views on the immorality of bissu. De Paiva tried to convert rulers in South Sulawesi to Christianity. On one occasion de Paiva expressed
exasperation with his attempts at conversion, blaming bissu for being key impediments:
I was thus awaiting a reply from the king [about whether he would convert to
Christianity], which was already late one day beyond the nine which he took
and the reason was because of the tremendous debating over Christianity by
this race of abominable priests [bissu] which I already mentioned, because of
whom it took the greatest possible labour, and all the delay was for the reconciliation he [the king] wanted to have with them [bissu].
(Baker, 2005: 70–1)
For de Paiva, a clear obstacle to converting the king and inhabitants of South
Sulawesi was the sway held by bissu. Brooke also noted such a connection:

Gendering the present past 81
The strangest custom I have observed is, that some men dress like women, and
some women like men; not occasionally, but all their lives, devoting themselves to the occupations and pursuits of their adopted sex. In the case of the
males, it seems that the parents of a boy, upon perceiving in him certain effeminacies of habit and appearance, are induced thereby to present him to one of
the rajahs, by whom he is received. These youths often acquire much influence
over their masters.
(1848: 82–3)
Mariani, Haji Baco’, and Haji Yamin, all bissu, further elaborated to me the central
roles bissu played within the royal courts:
Bissu used to live in the courts with the raja . . . we were a really important part
of the court. We performed all the ceremonies for the raja. For instance, when
she/he was installed as ruler we had to perform a ceremony for that. And then
when her/his children were born, we performed ceremonies at the birth. Then
when the children were older and had to be circumcised, we performed the ceremony for that. And if there was illness within the palace we cured that. And
then when the raja died, we performed death ceremonies.
(Mariani)
Bissu would often perform different types of dances, like pajoge, penari, pakélong (B), and bissu would sing and tell stories (dongeng) to the raja. Often such
songs and dances would be to entice a spirit (roh) to enter the bissu, like tari
lolosou (B), which is a dance for calling the dewata. At other times, the songs
and dances were to entertain the raja, like pajogéangko (B), which is an entertainment dance.
(Haji Baco’)
Bissu were the companions (pendamping) of the raja. If the raja got sick she/he
called a bissu. The raja couldn’t have a party (pesta) without bissu. Bissu
would receive many things for their services, such as gifts like white cloth, perfume, sarongs, hats. But bissu did boring things too . . . we were house managers (pengatur pola rumah tangga) and organized the palace (mengatur
kerajaan). And we were like servants (ma’dayang, B) serving the raja. And do
you know irrebba (B)? This is the death ceremony performed by bissu. When
a noble dies, a bissu would be called on to perform a ceremony to remove the
spirit (kasih keluar roh). The spirit would have to be set free. When someone
dies, the angel (malaikat) is above them waiting. The bissu have to perform
death rites so that the malaikat that comes to take the body is a good malaikat
and will take the body with respect. But since Islam, we follow Islamic tradition and bury our dead.
(Haji Yamin)
These narratives reveal the central roles bissu played within royal courts. In the last
account Haji Yamin notes that bissu performed irrebba. Hamonic (2002: 8) asserts

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that in the past bissu would also relay whether the body had to be placed in the
ground, in the ocean, burnt, or placed in the top of a tree until it vanished (i.e. was
eaten by birds) (lenyap, B) (cf. Pelras, 1996: 47, 106–7). These accounts also show
the access bissu had to intimate family circles and inner parts of the palace. Indeed,
the androgynous nature of bissu was considered to render them sexually nonthreatening (i.e. bissu were, and continue to be, popularly considered asexual
beings and therefore not a threat to a woman’s chastity). Moreover, since bissu
were considered unable to have offspring, there would be no progeny to challenge
the ruler’s right to govern. Parker (pers. comm. 2003) notes that in many Balinese
courts, too, transgender males were allowed to do women’s hair and dress them
because they were not considered a sexual threat. As we saw earlier, de Paiva noted
that bissu had no interest in women and that contact with a woman in thought or
deed was believed to lead to the destruction of their religion. Matthes (1872) also
recorded that severe penalties were incurred, such as drowning, if any sexual contact was initiated by bissu. A high-status Bugis man, Andi Galib, additionally told
me that severe penalties still officially exist for sexual transgressions by bissu. The
array and severity of punishments suggests that there was a good deal of anxiety
about the possibility of improper relations between bissu and women.
While the role of bissu within the palace was certainly important, and by many
accounts bissu became respected and powerful members of royal courts, there is no
historical evidence of bissu exercising direct political leadership in any of the South
Sulawesi kingdoms (L. Andaya, 2000: 37). Rather, their influence was often indirect, as spiritual advisors to rulers, or as ritual practitioners calling upon gods to
save or protect the land belonging to the white-blooded rulers.
In addition to their roles within royal courts, it often fell upon bissu to protect the
palace from external threats. In the following two narratives bissu recount their role
in defending the royal courts:
Once upon a time, the sky opened up and said that bissu must stand in front of
the raja and the raja must stand behind because bissu have the knowledge about
adat . . . like where the raja should build the palace, what people should wear at
weddings. The raja couldn’t stand in front because she/he knows nothing!
Bissu are the only ones who know all about adat and know all the genealogies.
Did you know that bissu were the guards of the palace? Yes, they were. They
didn’t have to use physical force, they had magic, and this magic was strong
enough to protect the royalty and the arajang. Bissu know spells that make
them impenetrable (kebal), so they couldn’t get stabbed.
(Haji Yamin)
Bissu were forced to go into battle and they did so carrying incense (dupa) so
that the Boné forces couldn’t advance. Bissu held burning incense in front of
them. The Boné forces therefore used cannons, but when the balls were fired
the bissu could catch them in their hands. Bissu could fight for three days without stopping. Twenty bissu could outlast thousands of troops. There is a water
well, Bungung Sumber Bissu, and all the bissu and troops bathed there before

Gendering the present past 83
fighting and after they bathed there they could fight without fear or food or rest
for four days. But the Boné forces won.
(Mariani)
While Mariani was not clear on when this battle took place, it is possible that this
narrative refers to a time during the seventeenth century. Between 1666 and 1669,
South Sulawesi was wracked by warfare between the Dutch VOC and its Boné
Bugis allies, led by Arung Palakka, combined on one side, and the Makassar dual
kingdom of Goa and Tallo and its allies, including Wajo’, on the other (L. Andaya,
1981). This unnerving situation caused the palace to gather all forces, both sacred
and profane. In the Bugis courts, bissu were mobilized to seek help and blessings
from the gods to protect and aid their white-blooded rulers. In one particular
account, written possibly by bissu and imbued with La Galigo elements, Arung
Palakka’s success is credited to bissu:
In this tale of sacred time a direct relationship is drawn between bissu intervention and the success of Arung Palakka, a descendant of the white-blooded
rulers who himself ruled in Bone from 1672–96. The story begins unambiguously with the statement that it is about ‘Puatta Torisompae’ (‘Our Lord who is
given Obeisance’, an epithet which was applied to Arung Palakka). But the crucial actor in the story is Anurungeng Telinoé, who is a bissu terru. By falling
into a state of trance, the bissu is able to see considerable activity in the
Upperworld. Preparations are being made by the great lords to send the Datu
Pammusu’ (‘The Warrior Lord’) to earth to govern Bone and restore the soul of
the Happy Land. Anurungeng Telinoé’s soul then ascends via the rainbow to
the Upperworld to the very summit of the heavens. He requests from the
Creator, Topabarrebarreédé, the seed, ‘the Valuable Invincible Essence’,
which would become the Pillar of War, the Restorer of the Happy Land. The
Creator is sitting at his Palace of Shining Mirrors and agrees to grant the
request. To assist this Pillar of War, the bissu prepares weapons with which to
neutralize the enemy, and gathers supernatural plants which exist in the highest
heavens and are used to make special potions. The seed is then introduced into
the womb of Datu Sénngeng who descends to earth by means of the rainbow.
(L. Andaya, 2000: 39–40)
The above narrative supports the idea that bissu are used throughout the ages to help
explain the supernatural powers of Bugis heroes. In the version mentioned here, the
seed is Arung Palakka, the seventeenth-century hero. In other versions, however,
the seed is Batara Guru (Koolhof, 1999). Calling upon the past to legitimize certain
contemporary standpoints is not uncommon. In late nineteenth century Bali, for
instance, external threats engendered much politicking, invention of respectable
genealogies, and re-invention of tradition in order to manoeuvre for forthcoming
Dutch colonization (Parker, pers. comm. 2003).
The crucial actor in the above narrative is a bissu named Anurungeng Telinoé;
Anurungeng being a special title that Andaya notes is held by bissu who are able to

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intervene on behalf of humanity. Numerous other accounts include mention of
bissu forming the first line of defence, such as the one below that includes ostensibly female bissu:
When faced with an invasion by the army of the powerful state of Bone, the
much weaker Lamatti forces called upon the assistance of the bissu. The Puang
Matoa (‘Elder Lord’, i.e., the head of the bissu) in Lamatti, a very old woman
(makkunrai ridi’) dressed in red, was borne on a palanquin to confront the
Bone troops. She was accompanied by some 100 female bissu (core-core)
waving swords (alameng) and weaver’s wooden shuttles (walida) while
chanting their sacred spells (memmang). As they approached, the Bone troops
fired on them but no one was injured. The bissu continued their march, this
time to the east, and again no one was struck by any of the enemy’s missiles.
Having done their work, the bissu then retired.
(L. Andaya, 2000: 40)
The term core-core mentioned above was not familiar to most of my informants. A
few people told me core-core refers to calabai who pretend to be bissu. Lathief
(2004: 106) defines bissu core-core or bissu ponco’ as bissu who only have partial,
or even poor, knowledge of bissu practices, and who are only called on to
participate in certain ceremonies. Elsewhere, Lathief (2004: 48–9) notes that
female bissu in Boné can be called core-core. Ostensibly female bissu are not common though and during my field work I only met one such bissu. Although biologically female, she was post-menopausal, a state which placed her in a special
category. Friedericy (1933: 515) also wrote that only a few bissu were female. In
the 1950s, van der Kroef noted a decrease in the number of female bissu, commenting, as:
the male and paternal element comes more and more to the fore, male priests
make their appearance, and the realm of activity at one time reserved for the
female is entered into by the male . . . [there is a] period of adjustment, during
which the ‘newer’ male priests adapt themselves to the ‘older’ feminine gods
and rituals, adopting women’s dress in the process.
(1956: 184)
While van der Kroef’s reasoning is inadequate and assumes an outdated evolutionary replacement of matriliny/matriarchy by patriliny/patriarchy, it is interesting
that he noted this process of change, suggesting that female bissu were more common in the past than now. Indeed, Blackwood (2005a) gives an excellent account of
the different trajectories of female and male ritual transvestism in island Southeast
Asia, showing that from the 1600s, ritual transvestism made little sense for females.
Interestingly, though, Mexican machi (shamans) are nowadays predominantly
female whereas male machi predominated in earlier times, a phenomenon
Bacigalupo (2004a, 2004b) explores further.
The narratives cited above suggest that bissu constituted an important defensive
network. As social status, derived often from links to the nobility, continues to be

Gendering the present past 85
an important element in Bugis society (Idrus, 2003; Millar, 1989), reproducing
such narratives allows bissu to claim a certain amount of respect in contemporary
society. Bissu also played an intimate role within the palace, conducting life-cycle
rituals, entertaining the nobility, performing death ceremonies and organizing the
palace. Bissu are able to exploit their link with the nobility, a link reinforced
through their connection with the spirit world and with arajang, in attempts to
command a respected place within current Bugis society.
* * * *
Taking up Loos’ (2006: 329) vision for Peletz’s (2006) article, where she notes that
Peletz ‘has cleared a path for future projects that will embed these isolated moments
and “sightings” of transgendered individuals in their specific rich contexts,’ this
chapter examined how the past is recreated and drawn upon to suit contemporary
purposes. The chapter specifically showed how constructions of a real and imagined past are used today by bissu in respect to their gendered positions within Bugis
South Sulawesi. Examination of the mythological and current cultural contexts of
Bugis society facilitates a fuller exploration of both bissu and Bugis notions of
gender.
Bugis are renowned for tenaciously maintaining and revitalizing past practices
and modifying and adapting foreign ones (Acciaioli, 1985, 1989, 2002b). What
results from such processes is a notion of ‘tradition’ that is not based on an essential and static past. Rather, tradition is considered to be undergoing constant reinvention. We see this, for instance, in the continuing importance of ascriptive status,
which has been remade to include status achieved through such avenues as higher
education. We also see reinvention in respect to Islam. In order to move within a
Muslim environment, bissu seek permission first from Allah before performing a
ceremony, and citations from the Qur’an are included in bissu rituals. The Creator
Patotoé is now sometimes recognized as Allah. As Bacigalupo (2004a) similarly
found for machi shamans in Mexico, subjects often argue that their practices are
traditional while stretching and reinventing the notion of tradition for their own
ends. By modifying traditions bissu have managed to maintain relevant roles in
contemporary society.
If bissu encounter someone who implores them to become modern and forget
about past practices they will often evoke Bugis narratives to assert the meaningful
roles of bissu. As Andaya (2000: 35) notes, ‘The bissu’s position is reaffirmed in
rituals, in Bugis manuscripts or lontara, in the sacred ancient Bugis epic known as
the I La Galigo, and in certain bissu texts written in a special “language of the
gods”.’ This link with the past enables bissu to advocate for contemporary
legitimacy.
Bissu have long been an important element of Bugis weddings, and they have
adapted their role to continue having relevance in this site of ritual and spiritual significance. Bissu are in many ways thus considered responsible for keeping Bugis
traditions alive, especially those that uphold rank distinctions. Bissu recall extensive genealogies, perform dances, invoke chants that use old forms of the Bugis language, and remember the correct procedures to follow at weddings. For example, I

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was told by bissu Haji Baco’ that, ‘You must have bissu at a wedding, who else
knows how all the rituals are supposed to be performed?’ Moreover, during a high
status wedding in Jakarta in 1999 the bride’s father continually sought advice from
bissu on how things ought to be performed and bissu gave instructions concerning
the best day to exchange rings, where to erect the flower bath, and the correct order
of proceedings (Davies, 2007a). Bissu thus continue to have particular key roles
and functions within Bugis society.
In order for bissu to perform such roles and functions they must combine both
male and female elements and, in a sense, transcend normative man/woman gender
categories. Recognition that bissu embody androgyny means that there is a certain
level of gender freedom in Bugis South Sulawesi not necessarily found elsewhere.
Through analysing and assessing information that can be obtained from indigenous narratives, and colonial and contemporary writings, it is possible to envisage
an image of the past in which androgynous beings were an important part of Bugis
society. The flexibility of gender in the past thus opens conceptual space for multiple genders. Bissu utilize this rich and dynamic history to validate and authenticate
contemporary positions. Such a precedent enables bissu, and by extension some
calabai and calalai, to claim certain contemporary spaces. While this chapter has
presented a rather affirmative picture of bissu, this is only part of the picture. Very
few individuals identify as bissu – during my time in South Sulawesi I have met
around 30 – and while some make a good living through conducting rituals and
blessings, many feel undervalued by society and face differing degrees of harassment and prejudice (see Chapter 8). Often this prejudice stems from moves within
Indonesia to adopt a modernizing path that is increasingly sceptical of individuals
such as bissu. In the next chapter, then, I look at dominant notions of gender in
Indonesia to provide a larger context in which bissu, calabai, calalai, women and
men negotiate gender.

5

Gendering life

In post-Suharto Indonesia there has been a veritable increase in the diversity of gender and sexual representations, although depictions of transgender, gay and lesbian
characters in Indonesian cinema have a longer history than most people realize
(Murtagh, 2008). In the literary world, Ayu Utami’s novel Saman (1998), which
was published just weeks before the fall of President Suharto, ushered in an era of
writings centred on independent, sexually assertive women (e.g. Ayu, 2004;
Basuki, 2001; Herliany, 2001; Yusuf, 2003). In the world of film, Nia diNata’s
Arisan (2003) and Berbagi Suami (2006) and Saputra’s (2004) Virgin showed successful, sexy and sexual women and, along with Detik Terakhir (Istiabudi, 2005),
Realita Cinta dan Rock ’n Roll (Avianto, 2006) and Coklat Stroberi (Octaviand,
2007) transgender and gay characters appeared on screen, as well as a diverse portrayal of men. Indeed, Murtagh (2008) reveals that since 2002, around 20 films
have screened that include gay, lesbian or transgender characters, although most of
these films regard homosexuality and transgenderism with some level of ambivalence. In television, particularly in advertising as Clark (2004a) shows, women are
increasingly being shown in positions of control, while men have moved away
from being depicted only as strong, adventure-loving lads to an emphasis on their
ineptitudes and shortcomings. There are now also sinetron (soap operas), such as
Suami-Suami Takut Istri (Husbands Afraid of their Wives), which depict defenceless husbands and powerful wives, although the husbands secretly play around with
beautiful women (Idrus, pers. comm., 2009).
The specific media representations of gender noted above stand in contrast to
dominant gender ideals presented through general mass media, parental guidance,
school programmes, religious fora and government initiatives. Indeed it
remains the heteronormative focus of the latter promoters of gender that most
heavily sculpt thinking about gender in the archipelago. As Blackwood (2007: 295)
notes, the ‘deployment of gender as an apparatus of power in Indonesia is
located in the discursive practices of the state, religion and popular media. It
works to marginalize and stigmatize practices that fall outside reproductive citizenship.’ In order to frame the environment in which calalai, calabai and bissu,
as individuals who fall outside the model of ideal citizenship, develop gendered
selves this chapter pays particular attention to normative representations of
gender.

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Gendering life

The first section of this chapter uses notions of social location to demonstrate the
centrality of gender in Indonesia. I analyse the extent to which struggles for status
acquisition are underpinned by concerns of gender, arguing that in order to achieve
increased social status, individuals must adhere to strict gendered principles. The
second section examines how national level discourses, such as government ideology, promotion of familial values, ideals of courtship and marriage, and advertising, help shape and direct gender ideals. In section three I explore Islam and what
Islamic doctrine proposes as normative femininity and masculinity. The final
section examines processes of gendering by looking at the Bugis concept of siri’
(honour/shame) to investigate what constitutes ideal femininity and masculinity in
South Sulawesi and analyse ways in which individuals are gendered towards these
ideals.
This chapter has been somewhat artificially divided into sections based on
national, religious and local discourses even though, as Sangren asserts, the:
academic penchant to imagine discourses as hierarchized into ‘dominant,’
‘orthodox,’ ‘hegemonic,’ or ‘state’ discourses and (conversely) ‘subaltern,’
‘local,’ ‘counter-hegemonic,’ ‘resistant,’ or ‘heterodox’ ones aligns very inadequately with the complexity of multiple levels of community and identity in real
social spaces.
(1995: 17)
It is thus problematic to neatly divide local, national and religious discourses
because in Indonesia, as elsewhere, a melding of forms takes place. For instance, in
South Sulawesi, Bugis culture is often seen as being synonymous with being
Muslim. Moreover, while factors influencing local culture may be considered initially international or national, over time these are localized and take on their own
flavours, as Boellstorff (2005b) reveals with his research on national gay subject
positions in Indonesia and Rocha (2006) shows in her work on Zen in Brazil. Local
influences can also move outwards. In her review of Ayu Utami’s novel Saman
(1998), Soe Tjen Marching (2007) argues that the novel does not merely follow
Western standards, but rather shows an awareness of cultural hybridity and plurality. Marching (2007: 145) further asserts that Saman offers the ‘possibility of a
local, Indonesian value moving outward – that is, that archipelagic culture(s) have
influenced other culture(s).’ As such, it is important to acknowledge processes of
globalization, facilitated through travel, migration and media, and explore how
these processes not only produce cultural convergence but also divergence and
local specificities. Indeed, the word ‘glocal’ has been coined to signify mergings of
global and local.
While acknowledging the shortcomings of dividing the chapter into discrete sections, it remains instructive to disentangle certain discourses to more rigorously
examine them. Moreover, many people in South Sulawesi divide gender norms into
their perceived origin. For instance, it is frequently acknowledged that it is specifically Bugis culture, rather than say Islam, that requires men to protect women’s
honour. So it can be instructive to centre attention on perceptions of a distinct local

Gendering life 89
culture. Indeed, the importance of looking at the local was highlighted in a recent
special edition of SOJOURN (Sulistiyanto, 2006), where contributors raised the
potential risks of focusing too heavily on national or global factors while neglecting local specificities.
This chapter takes up the call by Jackson (2003b: 3) to undertake place-based
research. Jackson contends that, ‘distinctive forms of discourse and culture
continue to be place-based, bounded, bordered, and marked by spatial discontinuities, even under globalization and it is a key task of contemporary Asian Studies
to map the lines “beyond which it can be said that something different
happens” (Foucault, 1977b: 68; cited in Stoler, 1996: 208).’ Throughout this
book I hope to provide a focus on place, recognizing though that place does
not equate with local and analyse where dominant discourses and modes of
power converge, are internalized, modified and resisted by people who engage
with them.

Gendered articulations and status
Individuals unfamiliar with gendered articulations in Indonesia and Bugis South
Sulawesi may miss many of the ways gender is expressed. Neither Bugis nor
Indonesian languages have a gender specific singular third person pronoun to differentiate women and men, suggesting that for some that gender is a muted concept.
For other observers, ‘the sarong, that long strip of cloth wrapped around the body
and worn by men and women, does not gender the body as do pants and skirts in the
West’ (Kennedy, 1993: 3). Women in the region are generally not marked by rituals such as foot-binding, scaring, tattooing, or full clitoridectomies, which serve to
signal the transition to womanhood in some other societies (Atkinson, 1982: 257).
Gender may also not initially seem significant because women and men appear to
enjoy relatively equal status (cf. Errington, 1990; Pelras, 1996; Reid, 1988).
Indeed, the active public role of women surprised a number of early travellers to
South Sulawesi:
All the offices of state, including even that of aru matoah, are open to women;
and they actually fill the important posts of government, four out of the six
great chiefs of Wajo being at present females. These ladies appear in public
like the men; ride, rule and visit even foreigners, without the knowledge or
consent of their husbands.
(Brooke, 1848: 75)
Among [the people of Sulawesi] the women, in particular, enjoy privileges seldom yielded to them among barbarians.
(Crawfurd, 1820: 61–2)
[Women] are held in more esteem than could be expected from the state of civilization in general and undergo none of the severe hardships, privations, or
labours that restrict fecundity in other parts of the world.
(Raffles, 1817: appendix CLXXIX)

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Andaya (2004: 74) further recounts a battle in Sulawesi in the seventeenth
century where the kingdom of Goa was losing and all available women were
thus instructed to don trousers and shirts, instead of sarongs, and proceed to the
battlefield.
There are additionally current efforts to actively promote equality between
women and men throughout Indonesia. Robinson (2002) notes that many
Indonesian groups endorse gender equality and support women actively participating in politics (cf. Devere and Davies, 2006; Idrus, 2003: 331). Programmes of
equality are also being promoted through government ministries, chiefly through
the Ministry of Women’s Empowerment, which was particularly sensitive to gender issues while under the leadership of Khofifah Indar Parawansa (Idrus, pers.
comm. 2007). Some advertisements, furthermore, endorse gender equality, such as
this television commercial I saw in April 2002:
Father:

Your mother and I are almost the same. Well almost, I have a
beard (jenggot)! [Daughter laughs.] But just because we wear
different clothes doesn’t mean that we have to be treated
differently.
Daughter:
So, I can become a pilot?
Father:
Sure, if you’re capable (mampu) you can become a pilot.
Daughter:
Yay!
Male voice over: Women and men are indeed different, but this doesn’t mean it’s
alright to discriminate (Perempuan dan lelaki memang beda,
tapi tidak berarti boleh dibeda-bedakan).
Such sentiments of equality and non-differentiation of gender lead some commentators to perceive gender in the archipelago as a diffuse phenomenon. For instance,
Geertz (2006) sees gender as derived from and expressed through status and as such
he argues that gender distinctions are subservient to status ones throughout inner
Indonesia. As support for this argument, Geertz remarks that in Baliness temples
identical faceless wooden statues represent the gods and that these statues are distinguished from each other more by status than gender. However, the fact that there
are always two statues, one male and one female, would seem significant. Geertz
also comments that the higher one’s inherited status the more culturally muted the
gender binary becomes. Peletz (2006: 333), though, remains unsure how to reconcile this notion with the fact that higher status women have a more clearly defined
social role than lower status women (cf. Peletz, 2007).
Notions of social status are indeed extremely important in Bugis South Sulawesi.
The following three examples suggest just some of the ways status comes into play
in quotidian life. At Bugis marriage and birth celebrations guests give gifts of
money enclosed in envelopes. After my host-brother’s wedding in February 2007
all the family members gathered and eagerly opened the envelopes to see how much
each guest had given. Small donations of around Rp5000 (US$0.50), which were
generally given anonymously, were received with looks of distain. Other donations, some of which were over Rp500,000 (US$50), included the name of the

Gendering life 91
benefactor, ensuring a veritable increase in the latter’s social standing, particularly
as word spread of the large donation.
During a further wedding I attended, Puang Sari, who was then the highest ranking person in the region of Wajo’, was served a plate of rice. Before she could take
her first mouthful, though, the plate was whipped away and someone promptly
returned with a large silver platter on which was piled a copious helping of rice.
When presented with this platter Puang Sari recognized the respect conferred
through this gesture but she could only laugh at the impossibility of consuming this
amount of rice.
On another occasion a woman told me the following narrative, again suggesting
the significance of status in Bugis South Sulawesi:
We had an argument. She was my best friend for years, since we were little
children. But you know how she’s just married that man? Well, he’s from an
important family. A noble family even. So now she insists that I call her Puang
[Lord/Lady, a Bugis title indicating that the person is of noble descent]. Well,
I won’t do it. Is she implying that I’m now so much lower than she is? Well, if
that’s the case, I don’t want anything to do with her anymore!
(Andi Anisia, 50-year-old woman)
Andi Anisia stresses above that she will not call her childhood friend by the term
Puang. We see here the importance of social status and also the contested nature of
acquired status; Andi Anisia’s friend feels herself entitled to be called Puang by
virtue of who she has married whereas Andi Anisia refutes the implication that she
is now suddenly of lower status than her friend. As Millar notes:
Within this society individuals simultaneously compete for higher achieved
status, on the one hand and jealously guard their privileges based upon ascriptive status, on the other. Consequently, for the Bugis, the question of the ‘social
location’ of individuals is a matter of continuous tension; it is always important
yet seldom certain.
(1989: 1)
Additionally, Idrus (2003: 324) comments in her thesis on Bugis practices of gender, sexuality and marriage that ‘who you are’ is more important than ‘what your
gender is.’ Idrus (2003: 324) further reveals that ‘men and women are, first and
foremost, stratified based on social location and personal achievement,’ although
she remarks that gender does make a difference when it comes to political claims in
public life. Considering the importance of status it is thus crucial that individuals
know their correct place in society (naisseng onrona, B). As Andi Anisia’s above
account stresses, knowing one’s correct place in the social hierarchy is essential in
order to know how to address other people. Yet as Andi Anisia reveals, relative
social status is always contentious.
In emphasizing the importance of status, Susan Millar (1983: 477) contends
that gender does not constitute a key structural tool among Bugis: ‘The Bugis possess a gender system that is formally elaborated but does not comprise a primary

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organizational principle of their culture.’ Millar further asserts that the significance
of gender is lost in the struggle for status:
[G]ender relations in Bugis society are almost entirely subordinate to a cultural
preoccupation with hierarchical social location. Social location is an attribute
of each individual and has far less to do with gender than with individual
characteristics distributed without reference to gender.
(1983: 477)
Although I do not wish to undermine the significance of social location in Bugis
society, which is well demonstrated (Chabot, 1996[1950]; Idrus, 2003; Millar,
1989), I build on previous work (Davies, 2007a, 2007b) to explore how gender concerns circumscribe appropriate means by which individuals can gain or lose social
standing. Notions of idealized masculinity and femininity are perhaps nowhere
clearer than in efforts to accumulate and maintain social location. Only by epitomizing gender ideals can people realize increased social status. In contrast to Millar
(1983; 1989), and more broadly to Geertz (2006), I argue that gender is a highlighted concept in Indonesia and more specifically in Bugis South Sulawesi, and
that gender is not subservient to status but rather gender inflects status. As Millar
(1983: 482) herself remarks, ‘the gender system is constructed, and patterns of
male-female behaviour function, in accord with the overarching concern of the
Bugis to learn and maintain their social locations.’ This section explicitly explores
the links between status and gender.
In analysing social location in Bugis society, there are a number of concepts it
helps to be familiar with, including lahireng (B) and bateng (B). It should be noted
though that other scholars of Bugis society see these concepts as borrowed from
Indonesian (lahir/batin) and, therefore, suggest they may not constitute a deep cultural notion in Bugis society (Acciaioli, pers. comm. 2003). Millar (1983, 1989)
gives a detailed analysis of these terms, which I will briefly summarize. Lahireng is
socially manifest behaviour and accomplishments and when Bugis speak of
lahireng they refer to the observable social effectiveness of individuals. Lahireng is
associated with akal (the capacity of human reason). People who use their akal and
thus develop their lahireng behave in socially acceptable ways and usually succeed
in acquiring wealth, education, position, and a variety of physical and mental selfdefence capabilities (Millar, 1983: 479). Bateng is a continuously changing state of
inner experience. The idea of bateng is not a prior, unconstructed principle of the
human self, rather it is a domain of human experience that is parallel to the lahireng
domain. Bugis sometimes associate bateng with a metaphor of heat or fuel (Millar,
1983: 479). It is said that the real aim of a person’s life is to perfect their lahireng
and bateng and to do this individuals must achieve a balance between the two
(Millar, 1983: 479). Individuals who have well-developed bateng and lahireng, and
well-developed self-defence capabilities, may in turn become tau malisé (B, literally, ‘persons densely filled up’).
Tau malisé are highly respected in Bugis society. In order to become a tau
malisé a person must be able to employ high levels of self-discipline and akal. Tau

Gendering life 93
malisé can summon great physical strength in dangerous situations and also inspire
the fear and admiration of their consociates (Millar, 1983: 479). In order to become
tau malisé individuals must develop their lahireng and bateng complex and exude
qualities such as self-discipline, reason, authority, physical strength and aggression
(Millar, 1983: 479–80). Were a person to flout these characteristics they may
become known as a tau massissi lalo (B, literally, ‘person who it runs out of, even
through a skin of scales’). A tau massissi lalo is a person not considered ‘densely
filled up’ and is believed to have few defences of the lahireng against natural or
supernatural dangers (Millar, 1983: 479).
While Millar does not use these concepts to elucidate ideal notions of masculinity or femininity, she adds in a footnote, ‘The Bugis believe that it is generally not
the nature of women to become tau malisé, [rather a woman should become
assured] of the devotion of a tau malisé who will protect her from physical dangers’
(1983: 491, fn. 6). Indeed, if a woman exuded the aforementioned characteristics it
would be deemed highly unusual and may result in her losing status. Status, then, is
conferred on individuals for fulfilling very specific gendered criteria, as we see further in the next paragraph.
A way for individuals to increase their social status is by becoming economically
successful, ideally by travelling away from home and returning wealthy (Acciaioli,
1989; Tol, van Dijk and Acciaioli, 2000). Obtaining a high level of education can
also boost low status (Pelras, 1996: 331–2). Indeed, Smith-Hefner (2006) writes
about the importance of education and status in Javanese weddings where the
scholastic attainments of both the bride and groom are included on the invitations.
Status can additionally be gained through conspicuous consumption, with items
such as gold jewellery and cars being at the top of the most desirable list (Idrus,
2003: 160). Indonesian youth are also increasingly defining their identity and
status around fashion and individual expressions of freedom (Juliastuti, 2006).
Such paths to achieving increases in status are, though, highly gendered. Unlike
men, women are discouraged from travelling long distances alone and if they do,
the result can be a decrease in their social status. While it is desirable for both
women and men to be scholastically successful, it would be exceptional for a
marriage to take place between a highly educated woman and a less educated
man. Conspicuous consumption is also gendered as products bought for display are
particular for men and women. For instance, women might display status through
wearing gold jewellery while men might display it through purchasing a motorbike
or a car. Preoccupation with social status and the imperative to improve one’s
status thus draw on normative models of masculinity and femininity.
An additional way in which we see how gender inflects status is through status
contestations. For example, status contestations frequently occur yet disputes are
generally made among men, or among women. As Chabot (1996[1950]: 179)
remarks for neighbouring Makassar, social mobility ‘demands of the men that they
be in a constant relation of opposition to other men,’ not to women. Moreover,
when women are in competition, over clothing outfits or seating arrangements at
formal events, it is with other women. In Andi Anisia’s comments earlier, debate
over status took place between two women and it would be highly unusual if a man

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and a woman were directly arguing over relative status. Where a person’s standing
is being challenged, it is generally challenged between men or between women.
Another arena where the interrelationship between status and gender can be
observed is at weddings. Weddings are exceedingly important events in Bugis
social life (Davies, 2007a; Idrus, 2003, 2004; Millar, 1989) and they provide the
foremost arena for a full display of behaviours relating to social status. Millar
(1989: 1) chose weddings as her ‘text,’ in Geertz’s sense (1972), because:
few events in Bugis social life are richer in formal and symbolic manifestations
of this interest in social location than are weddings . . . weddings constitute fora
in which competitive and hierarchical relations are momentarily articulated.
[Moreover, the] approved incidents of individuals marrying above their level
of ascribed rank are at the heart of the dynamic tension in Bugis society.
(Millar, 1983: 483)
While weddings highlight issues of status contestation, a deeper analysis shows
that gender considerations are particularly salient, making it possible to argue that
preoccupation with status contestation is underpinned by gender concerns.
Marriages in South Sulawesi should take place between suitably ranked partQ
ners. While women are able to marry up (botting menré, B), a marriage between a
high-status woman and a low-status man is considered highly undesirable (B. W.
Andaya, 2000a: 252). As Millar (1983: 482) asserts, ‘Marriage formation is regulated by a formally articulated sanction against a woman marrying below her own
descent rank’ (cf. Pelras, 1996: 155). Indeed for some people such a marriage is
regarded as incest (salimara’, B) that will bring calamity to the community. Since
elopement usually occurs between a high-born woman and a man of lower status,
elopement is also regarded as an attack on a high-status family’s social position and
hence a cause of dishonour. In the past, an enemy could also bring dishonour to the
community by forcibly seizing its womenfolk (L. Andaya, 2004: 75). A hypogamous marriage does not necessarily delight the low-status family of the groom
either, as one might expect. As Millar (1989) points out, it is important for a family
to know their harga diri (self-worth) and the sanctioning of such an alliance would
be seen as disrespectful of a family’s low status position.
The prohibition against a noble woman marrying a commoner man is given sacred
sanction by the tale of I La Bulisa’, which is recounted in the La Galigo epic cycle.
Indeed La Galigo material provides a wealth of information about Bugis marriages
(L. Andaya, 2000: 8; Blust, 1981; Collins and Bahar, 2000; Hamonic, 1980: 69;
Idrus, 2003, 2004; Nurnaningsih, 2003; Pelras, 1996; Rahman et al., 2003). Because
I La Bulisa’ had married a higher status woman he was punished by supernatural
forces which caused his death through the bloating of his stomach (L. Andaya, 2000:
35), a clear message that women are not permitted to marry below their rank. Indeed,
during Brooke’s travels to South Sulawesi he noted of Bugis:
As no nation grants greater privileges to high birth, so no people are more
tenacious of the purity of their descent . . . A woman of pure blood never can

Gendering life 95
marry any but of her own class; but men mix their blood in marriage with the
daughters of freemen.
(1848: 73–4)
The consequences of a high-status woman marrying a low-status man tend not to be
as severe as they were, however, or as they are elsewhere. For instance, in Bali a
woman who married a lower status man would be thrown out of her family (Parker,
pers. comm. 2002).
One way to fulfil the imperative for a high-status woman to marry a high-status
man is for a man to increase his status. Indeed, it is possible for a wealthy Bugis man
to marry a woman of higher rank in a practice called mangngelli dara (B, buying
blood, that is, buying rank) (Millar, 1989; Schrauwers, 2000). As one Bugis man
told me, ‘There are four reasons why a man can gain status and marry up: if he is
rich, smart, brave, or strongly religious.’ Acciaioli (pers. comm. 2003) notes, however, that such practices in South Sulawesi are region specific and while buying
blood is possible in Wajo’, it is not possible in Boné.
The strict regulations governing marriage stem in part from the Bugis kinship
system. Bugis society does not exhibit a patrilineal descent line, athough Bulbeck
(1992) notes a patrilineal bias in noble genealogies in Bugis and Makassar society.
Rather, Bugis society follows a bilateral or cognatic kinship system where an individual’s kindred is reckoned through both the mother’s and the father’s side
(Pelras, 1996: 152). The most important concept in understanding descent is not
‘lineage,’ but ‘branching off.’ ‘Branching off’ is reckoned from each pair of each
individual’s ancestors and produces successive circles of cousins (Pelras, 1996:
153). All individuals are thus surrounded by successive layers of collateral kin. As
Millar (1983: 483) notes, though, ‘noble descent is determined by the number of
times a person’s descent from a noble ancestor has been diluted by unions between
noble men and lower-ranking women, not between noble women and lowerranking men.’ Therefore, status is passed down primarily through the patriline,
although the matriline determines the dilution degrees (Acciaioli, pers. comm.
2004). It would be unlikely for parents to approve of their son marrying a woman of
lower social location unless the man already has a ‘primary wife,’ who ideally, but
not necessarily, is the first married (Pelras, 1996: 155). Once a man has married a
woman of similar social location, it is not considered necessary for additional wives
to be his ‘equal’ because they become followers (tau monro onro, B).
We see here how gender determines marital alliances and lineage. A high-status
woman cannot legitimately marry down. If her suitor is of a lower status to her,
though, they may still be able to marry if he has increased his status, for instance
through education or wealth accumulation and thus demonstrates he is berprestasi
(one who achieves). Similarly, a man should not marry down if it is his first marriage, although in subsequent marriages the woman’s status is not necessarily an
issue of concern.
It is possible in Bugis society for a man to have more than one wife (Idrus, 2003).
Under Islamic law up to four wives are permitted. During my field work I heard of
one man, my friend’s deceased great-great grandfather, who married 28 times. I also

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met a pregnant woman who was about to become a fourth wife. Additionally, I
attended the wedding of a 50-year-old mayor (bupati) and his 17-year-old second
wife. During a conversation after the ceremony, a neighbour told me that his
first wife had given permission for him to marry again in his search for children (mencari anak). It was assumed that it was the first wife, not the husband, who was infertile. While permissible, polygamy was not seen as desirable by most of the people I
spoke with. In fact, many people saw it as a highly objectionable arrangement.
When a couple marries, not only are the prospective bride and groom’s social
standing taken into consideration, but there is a complex set of rules regulating the
payment of bride price. Generally, a bride’s parents will not accept a lower rank
price (sompa, B) than was paid for the bride’s mother. It is especially important that
appropriate matches are made for the women in the family because ‘the lower limit
of a man’s fated bateng amplitude is gauged by the rank price received by his sister’ (Millar, 1983: 483). A bride’s family also receives dui’ ménré (B, ascending
money) and lise kawing (B, wedding substance, mahar) from the groom’s family
(Pelras, 1996: 156). This exchange raises interesting questions about how individuals who identify as calabai who marry women, or calalai who marry men, negotiate bride price, something yet to be examined.
Idrus (2003: 135) notes that a man’s aspiration for marriage is attributed to biological needs while a woman’s aspiration to marry is discussed in terms of social
status. I remember my host-brother once phoned from Jakarta and afterwards my
host-mother related the conversation: ‘He told me he wants to get married because
his burung (penis, literally ‘bird’) is always flying up (i.e. getting erect).’
Conversely, when discussing my host-sister’s marriage reasons given for hastening
arrangements were so that my host-sister’s status and therefore the status of my
host-family, would quickly increase. The reasons proffered for marriage are thus
gender specific.
For some people, status is actually perceived as a hindrance in respect to marriage. I met a number of people who no longer use the high-status Bugis title of Andi
before their name. As one man told me, ‘If I use the title Andi then I will only be able
to marry someone of high status, and I don’t want to have a title determine who I can
or can’t marry.’ This man’s mother similarly never used the title Andi for any of her
children because she worried using Andi would make them arrogant (sombong).
There are further instances where the importance of gender is clearly seen if
issues of status are deconstructed. For instance, events and rituals surrounding
Bugis weddings are indicators of ascribed and achieved social location. Yet such
rituals are underpinned by strict gender considerations (Davies, 2007a). For
instance, I heard many women exhort female relatives not to eat too much food at
wedding celebrations for fear people would think they did not have enough food at
home, an accusation that would adversely affect their status. I did not hear men talk
like this (cf. Idrus, 2003: 160). Another way in which status is articulated at
weddings is through seating arrangements:
On the day of the pesta [wedding reception], a primary concern of both sponsors and guests is the quality of the ushers. Ushers have a difficult role, because

Gendering life 97
the proper seating of guests is a dramatic and highly visible statement of the
status ordering of the Bugis community.
(Millar, 1989: 124)
Individual seating arrangements are indicative of relative status. At a wedding,
individuals may receive public affirmation of enhanced status, or conversely, they
may be visibly stripped of it. While seating is unquestionably a site of status contestation, it is also a highly gendered arena. Most obviously, wedding guests are
divided between women and men where women usually sit on the left side and men
sit on the right. I did, however, attend one wedding in Soppeng where guests sat in
mixed family groups. Confusion over relative status may occur and a man of higher
status could be mistakenly seated behind a man of lower status. Indeed at many
weddings I attended people randomly selected seats on respective female or male
sides. Sometimes people who had been on the hajj to Mecca or had the high-status
title of Andi would voluntarily sit towards the back of the room. What rarely happened though was a man sitting on the women’s side or vice versa. If calabai attend
weddings they tend to be employed in an organizational capacity and so are not formally seated. If calabai attend as guests, they are usually seated on the women’s
side. Bissu are often present at high-status weddings as official functionaries and so
are not officially seated but take their place near the bride and groom. I have not
attended a wedding where calalai were present.
Status is a highly contested and important aspect of Bugis South Sulawesi and
the ways notions of gender underpin status reveal much about both concepts. While
this section shows that in Bugis South Sulawesi gender continues to be a clearly
articulated and central concept, thus countering Geertz’s (1972, 2006) notion of
gender being a muted phenomena throughout Indonesia, it will be interesting to
track future changes in gender and in the relationships between gender and status.
For instance, Geertz (2006) questions the impact Islam and modernity are currently
having on gender. More specifically, Geertz wonders whether increasingly
emphatic definitions of gender distinctions, seen in part through greater numbers of
women wearing jilbab, will signify more differentiated forms of gender. If more
exacting gender designations emerge, the relationships between gender and status
in the region may be reworked.

Gendered ideals
The all-encompassing nature of the Indonesian government’s promotion of gender
ideals can be seen in school curricula, educational programmes, familial ideology,
health programmes and health-care clinics, mass education, development initiatives such as marriage regulations, and the mass media (Parker, 1992, 2001b,
2002b), as well as in state policies of nationhood and modernization (Blackburn,
2004; Brenner, 1999; Martyn, 2004). As Blackwood (2007: 295) notes, gender has
been rigidly produced as a means of stabilizing the Indonesian nation. Indeed,
Dwyer (2000: 27) shows how Indonesian nationalist constructs became naturalized
by reference to particular notions of sexuality and gender and how these latter

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concepts become reified as ‘essential, non-negotiable attributes of national identity.’ The power of these discourses to shape gender norms is considerable. Yet, as
Parker (2003) reveals, speaking for Bali, this power is not hegemonic, and local
traditions and practices, pre-existing knowledge and social relations mediate the
penetration of both nationalized and globalized gender discourses.
It is worth pointing out here that most of the literature on normative gender in
Indonesia focuses on women, even when the title includes the word ‘gender’ (e.g.
Sen, 2002). Only a few works focus specifically on heterosexual men (e.g. Clark,
2004a, 2004b; Geertz, 1972), with Smith-Hefner (2006) discussing young
heterosexual men’s sexuality and the conflicting pressures they face to maintain
virginity and be good lovers. It seems Peletz (2006: 309) is correct in noting that
‘gender’ still appears as a synonym or shorthand for ‘woman’ in Indonesia.
The Indonesian government actively seeks to define in a number of ways what
being a woman means. One way this is achieved is through discourses of the
family where the family principle (azas kekeluargaan) is promoted as a means
whereby members of society contribute to the nation/family without any expectation of reward (Boellstorff, 1999: 491–2). Indeed, the first Indonesian Women’s
Congress of 1928 noted that a ‘woman’s responsibilities are to be loyal to her husband, to her nation and homeland, and to love her children’ (Blackburn, 2008: 89).
The policy of promoting nuclear families and motherhood during Suharto’s New
Order period (1965–98) has been termed Ibuism, a word denoting an ideology that
sanctions any action taken by the mother (Djajadiningrat-Nieuwenhuis, 1987). In
New Order rhetoric the five major duties of women (Panca Darma Wanita) were
clearly defined. A woman was a wife, mother, procreator, financial manager of the
household and finally member of society (Sullivan, 1994: 129–30; Suryakusuma,
1996). The hierarchical order of a woman’s duties, which is still influential today,
shows that only after a woman has married and produced children is it her duty to
be a member of society. Indeed, a woman may not even be considered an adult until
she fulfils the first two duties (Blackwood, 1998; Tiwon, 1996).
Once married a lot of pressure is placed on women in respect to reproduction. If
a couple has not conceived after a year of marriage the fault is generally attributed
to the wife rather than the husband. On one occasion in 2005 about ten members of
my host-family piled into a minivan and drove for close to two hours to the house
of a reputed sanro (traditional healer) who could help my host-sister Ani overcome
her assumed infertility. When we arrived we all sat in a circle on the floor and the
sanro tapped her right hand on the ground three times, indicating it would cost
Rp3000 (US$0.30), an amount that was then passed over. Ani was told to go and lie
on the bed and the sanro felt her stomach and told a nearby girl to go and buy two
bottles of water. Ani then gave the girl Rp5000 (US$0.50). When the girl returned
the sanro opened the water bottles and took a sip from each, being careful not to let
her lips touch the rim. The sanro then cupped her hands around the spout of each
bottle and whispered prayers into them. Ani was told to drink a few mouthfuls of
the water each day. The sanro also gave Ani some seeds that were to be ground as
flour and used in cooking. When I last saw Ani in February 2007 she had a daughter and it was considered that the sanro had rectified Ani’s infertility. It was

Gendering life 99
never considered that Ani’s husband might have required a blessing and a remedy
from a sanro.
During the New Order period, and continuing to the present, much attention has
specifically focused on women who breach kodrat wanita (a woman’s intrinsic
nature and destiny) (Wieringa, 2003: 70). Kodrat wanita directs Indonesian women
to be meek, passive, obedient to male members of the family, sexually shy and
modest, self-sacrificing and nurturing. If women resist their kodrat and disrupt the
natural order of things they are likely to be labelled subversive and a threat to state
stability (Wieringa, 2002: 339). Women are further portrayed as the bearers of culture and, as such, national identity is at stake when women stray from expected
norms of behaviour (Wieringa, 2003: 72). This alignment makes it exceedingly difficult for females to resist kodrat-sanctioned norms.
There has been critique of the role and position allocated to Indonesian women.
Raden Ajeng Kartini (1879–1904), a Javanese princess blessed with both a
European education and a supportive father, is considered the first Indonesian
woman to call consciously for a process of gender redefinition, and she demanded
equal rights for women and better marriage conditions. A more recent nod towards
equality is seen in Susilso Bambang Yudhoyono’s government where the Cabinet
for 2004–9 included four women, two of whom held portfolios not traditionally
considered women’s forte: Dr Mari Elka Pangestu was Minister of Trade and
Dr Sri Mulyani Indrawati was Minister of Finance. In addition, Megawati
Sukarnoputri’s presidency from 2001–4 provided if not substance to the debate at
least awareness that women could be elected to key posts.
On certain levels gender ideals for women in Asia are changing (Edwards and
Roces, 2000). For instance, Indonesian women are now more frequently assuming
positions of political power than in the past. Yet a closer examination shows that in
popular understandings in Indonesia, women are still considered innately suited to
the home environment while men are seen as better equipped for engagement in the
public world. Indeed while kodrat wanita has been redefined for various political
purposes, and definitions are constructed differently for women depending on their
social status, the existence of an essential woman’s nature has generally not been
questioned. For example, while the Indonesian women’s movement insisted on
equality it maintained ideas of a fundamental difference between women and men
(Wieringa, 2002: 338).
One area where conflicting notions of womanhood are seen is in the area of
work. Ford and Parker’s (2008) edited book includes a systematic analysis of
claims for the relative autonomy and high status of women in Indonesia in terms
of their work and economic activity. The editors found, though, that the idea of
women undertaking paid work is contested and that status is given to women who
do not work in the public sphere but who focus on activities at home. Indeed, all of
the aforementioned political women, including also State Minister for the
Empowerment of Women Dr Meutia Hatta Sawasono and Minister of Health
Dr Siti Fadillah Supari, stress that they are wives and mothers first and it is only
after satisfying their domestic duties that they attend to their paid employment (cf.
Sen, 2002).

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In my conversations, too, women articulated the importance of paid work, yet
they did not question the priority given to familial duties. For example, during a
meeting with a colleague, Dr Nurani, at the women’s studies centre of an
Indonesian university in January 2005 it was mentioned to me that, ‘Women have
special needs that can only be understood by women themselves, for instance issues
of reproductive health, family welfare, children’s education, children’s well-being
and household chores.’ It was further noted:
Women should be active in politics and public life. History tells us women are
capable of participating in the public arena, and becoming politically powerful, but the obstacle that remains for us is that people assume that women
should only do domestic work. But here is the proof: women in the past did
activities outside of the home without neglecting their domestic duties.
(Dr Nurani)
In making the above comments, this well-educated and travelled woman was
affirming women’s rights to be actively involved in politics and public life. What
she did not question, though, was that women should first and foremost attend to
their duties as wives and mothers (cf. Adamson, 2007). Despite rhetoric that seeks
to engage women more fully in public life, gender ideals in Indonesia still clearly
revolve around women as homemakers (Davies, 2005).
Men are also presented with particular gender ideals in Indonesia. Wieringa
(2003) argues that during Suharto’s rule nationhood was constructed on a
militaristic and patriarchal model of discipline and repression where militarized
masculinity became the hegemonic ideological force, complete with a desire to
control deviant forms of masculinity. As women’s sexuality was promoted as being
dangerous, men were given the responsibility of controlling women’s sexual
behaviour (Wieringa, 2002: 339) and protecting the purity and morality of their
families (Sullivan, 1994). Men were considered to be rational, self-controlled,
virile, and to have superior spiritual and mental faculties to women (Wieringa,
2002). Men were also seen as able to preserve harmony and order while women
were viewed as irrational, less able to control emotions, and occupying lower
orders that made them suited to dealing with money and everyday household
issues. With these assumptions, men were conceived of as the most appropriate
individuals to engage formally in public interactions and to represent their families,
making decisions deemed in their best interest.
In Indonesian government rhetoric, a husband is considered to be the kepala
rumah tangga (head of the household), while a wife is seen as ibu rumah tangga
(mother of the household). In marriage, men are by definition (if not in practice) in
charge of their families, a position enshrined in the 1974 Marriage Law. While this
positioning of men is pervasive, other values are evident. In Bugis discourse a husband is called and referred to as lakkainna Y (husband of Y) while the wife is called
and referred to as bainena X (wife of X). These terms indicate that each partner
equally ‘belongs’ to the other (Idrus, 2003: 101; Millar, 1983: 485). Implicit in this
discourse, however, is that the ideal husband is employed, a good decision maker
and has good manners, while the ideal wife fulfils the emotional and physical needs

Gendering life 101
of her husband (Idrus, 2003). It is thus essential that men, like women, marry heterosexually in Bugis society. Indeed Idrus (2003: 108–9) notes that if a man in rural
South Sulawesi reaches 35–40 and he has not married he may be considered
calabai, a reference used to suggest he is not a complete man.
In order to ensure that men fulfil their proper roles, they are believed, and
expected, to embody reason (akal) and be in control of their passions (nafsu). Peletz
(1995) writes in-depth about akal and nafsu in relation to Malay society, from
which parallels can be drawn with Indonesia. While all humans possess akal and
nafsu, it is thought that passion is present in greater concentrations (or is more pronounced) among women, while reason is less so (Peletz, 1995: 93). As such, the
culturally elaborated perception in Malay society is that women are less controlled
and restrained than men and are more likely to gossip and desire material possessions, and be more closely linked to the ‘baser’ things in life than men (Peletz,
1995: 94). In respect to sexual relations men are believed to have weaker desires
than women and be more able to have command over them (Peletz, 1995: 94). Such
conceptions of male nature ‘portray men as innately more capable than women of
controlling their base passions and instincts’ (Brenner, 1995: 30).
Peletz (1995: 76) makes a useful distinction between ‘official’ and ‘practical’
representations of masculinity. While ‘practical’ representations often depict men
as neither reasonable nor responsible, these are in many respects an inversion of
‘official’ representations of masculinity. For instance, while men are thought to
have more reason, women are thought to be better managers of money, and to show
more restraint from gambling. While ideal notions of gender do not necessarily portray reality, representations are effective in engendering people towards certain
norms. As men are considered reasonable, self-disciplined and in control of their
passions, they are promoted through government discourses as responsible heads
of households and income earners.
Linked closely to these ideals of femininity and masculinity are discourses of
sexuality. In her work on the birth of the New Order state in Indonesia, Wieringa
(2000, 2002, 2003) analyses how sexuality has been used to shape the nation, arguing that the legitimacy of the New Order government ‘rested on the measure of control it exercised both over its own women as well as over the abject communist
women and the enemy men who were portrayed as being responsible for the
perverse, inhuman, primitive behaviour of their women’ (2003: 73). Fear was
spread about the uncontrolled sexual powers of women with the assertion that
women’s disobedience would endanger a man’s masculinity and destabilize the
Indonesian social system (2003: 82). Women’s sexuality therefore had to be
restrained by men.
Sexuality is regulated in part by gendered expectations about marriage and adulthood. Indeed, the deployment of gender works to stabilize a limited heterosexuality because a properly gendered citizenry does not need strict state regulations that
govern sexuality (Blackwood, 2007: 296). For women, sexuality is proper and
permissible only within marriage and under the control of a husband, while for men
there is an expectation of marriage and family that nevertheless tolerates extramarital affairs (Blackwood, 2007: 296). Blackwood (2007: 295) asserts, however,

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that post-1998 a conservative Islamic minority has pushed for more restrictive laws
moving the dominant discourse on sexuality from ‘strategically linking normative
gender with heterosexuality and marriage to direct attempts to legislate heterosexual marriage by criminalizing a wide range of sexual practices.’
A tangible example of the state’s control over sexuality is seen in relation to the
sexual conduct of civil employees. Civil servants are seen to represent the state, and
as such they are required to uphold the principles of the state and set an example for
the rest of society. As Suryakusuma (1996: 92) notes, the sexual conduct of public
servants is seen as an indicator of the moral integrity of the citizens and, to some
extent, the legitimacy of the state. During the New Order period, the Indonesian
Minister of Women’s Affairs publicly claimed that female homosexuality was not
in accord with Indonesian culture and was a denial of women’s natural destiny to
become mothers (Blackwood, 1999: 193; Gayatri, 1995; Murray, 1999: 142).
Additional comments by Abdurachman Wahid (1994) and other state and Islamic
officials about lesbians not being normal women have reinforced the legitimacy of
heterosexuality with appeal to gender norms. Such statements, along with the international visibility of lesbian and gay rights movements and heightened concern
about homosexuality in Indonesia, have in many cases reinforced the stigma of
homosexuality by declaring it deviant, unnatural and foreign (Blackwood, 2007:
299). Such views on the immorality of homosexuality make sustaining public
same-sex sexual relationships in Indonesia often very difficult and it reinforces the
notion that the only legitimate sexuality is heterosexuality.
While gender ideals continue to present women as sexually passive and men as
sexually assertive, not all individuals necessarily affirm this model in everyday
expressions. One middle-aged woman I spoke with in 2007 told me:
It is important for people to express themselves and for a wife to tell her husband that she loves him and vice versa. When I first got married we had lots of
sex and it was based on passion, but now it is based on love, but my husband
always asks my permission [to have sex] first.
(Ibu Siti)
While heterosexual marriage and sex are still assumed the norm in this narrative,
this woman felt able to express a desire for sex and wanted to assure me that her husband did not have unlimited sexual access to her. This assurance was particularly
emphasized because marital rape is not a punishable crime in Indonesia (Idrus and
Bennett, 2003).
While normative notions of masculinity and femininity have remained relatively
unchallenged in the last few decades, the issue of courtship shows that gender
ideals certainly have not stayed static. Moreover, an examination of courtship
reveals the stark contrasts between gendered ideals and reality.
While it is permissible, even encouraged, for men to initiate multiple public
courtships, the requirement that women preserve their reputation of sexual purity to
ensure future marriage prospects means that women must avoid broadcasting any
indiscretions. Parents consider it their obligation to guard their daughters against

Gendering life 103
the dangers of engaging in inappropriate pre-marital relations and therefore often
put their daughters under close surveillance. In some cases, though, puppy love
(cinta monyet or monkey love) is acceptable and indeed it may act to affirm heterosexuality through parents and others joking about suspected infatuations (Bennett,
2004: 57).
While women have to safeguard their reputations, this does not mean that
young people avoid romantic relationships. Rather, couples may conduct secret
courtships (pacaran bekstrit) (Bennett, 2004; Idrus, 2003: 71). In her groundbreaking work on single women and sexuality in Indonesia, Bennett (2004)
shows that gender prescriptions for young women are both adhered to and subverted. For instance, a woman may consent to pre-marital sexual relations but
only with the understanding that marriage is forthcoming. Indeed, Budiharsana
et al. (2003) show that Indonesian adolescents, including young Muslim women, are
more likely to engage in premarital sex now than in the past, thus supporting SmithHefner’s (2006) call to take note of the emergence of a new more self-consciously
Muslim sexuality among middle-class Indonesian youth (cf. Smith-Hefner, 2005).
Not only are types of courtship shifting but attitudes towards marriage are also
being reworked in light of changing cultural values. In Bugis South Sulawesi parents still often play a considerable role in promoting particular marriage partners
for their offspring. During a celebration I attended for a newborn baby (mappénré
tojang, B) in 2007, a middle-aged woman I was sitting next to mentioned that at
such events parents actively look for suitable prospective marriage partners for
their children. If there is a young single woman present, for example, the parents,
particularly the mother, of a single man may start asking about the woman’s social
status, family connections and may even initiate talks about future marriage
prospects.
Yet in her research on Indonesian women, Robinson (2000) found that the older
generation no longer completely controls the resources necessary to conclude a
marriage. As such, young people are having more choice in whom and when they
marry. Smith-Hefner (2007: 411–12) reveals that the percentage of marriages
arranged by parents is falling in Indonesia with only eleven percent of young
women saying they wanted their parent’s to arrange their marriage and citing 25 as
their ideal age to marry. Idrus (2003: 108–9) found that in rural South Sulawesi the
ideal age of marriage for girls is now 20, up from between 15 to 17 a few decades
ago. Nilan (2003) also found that young Indonesians are now more directly
involved in arranging their own marriage.
As marriage remains a contract for the production of future generations, a division of labour, and an avenue for the achievement and maintenance of social status,
when men and women take an active role in arranging their own marriages they are
also taking on added risk. If the marriage does not work, the couple bears a large
part of the responsibility, a burden previously shared by the extended family
(Nilan, 2003: 48). Boellstorff (1999: 143) illustrates how the move from predominantly arranged marriage to predominantly chosen marriage creates a new dilemma
for gay and lesbi Indonesians. When marriage is arranged, sexuality is not an issue,
but this changes when marriage is based on choice.

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While most couples in Bugis South Sulawesi make the ultimate decision about
who they marry, and they exercise the power of veto, individuals tend to choose a
partner from a select group of acceptable candidates. Such marriages are not strictly
arranged, but they receive the support and approval of all involved parties.
Mass media also plays a significant role in crafting gendered selves in Indonesia.
As Murray (1999: 143) notes, the media has been particularly important in influencing public opinion to accept the ideological construct of heteronormativity.
From government-sponsored television programmes to advertisements for cosmetics, cigarettes and clothing, models of heterosexual masculinity and femininity are
persuasively presented. In her work on representations of women in Indonesian
soap operas (sinetron), Aripurnami (1996) shows that women are depicted overwhelmingly in the domestic sphere and as being irrational, emotional, obedient and
unable to solve their own problems. Moreover, many magazines offer stereotypical
moralistic messages and remind young women of their obligation to maintain family honour through appropriate behaviour, even though they may also offer advice
on such events as dating (Handajani, 2008). For instance, romance fiction provided
in young women’s magazines and soap operas bears what Nilan (2003) calls a ‘pedagogic relationship to the social and cultural construction of gender,’ showing
young women how to negotiate flirting and courting while maintaining their reputation of purity to ensure a successful marriage. Furthermore, while advertisements
may try to sell particular types of clothing and make-up, or promote certain types of
behaviour, these images are often opposed to the dominant cultural norms that surround them. For example, women in advertisements frequently wear clothing that
would be considered immodest if worn in everyday life. Indeed, Nilan (2003: 52)
points out that many advertisements are read as indications of how not to appear.
Indonesian men too have been targeted by mass media. In his work on masculinity and the media, Clark (2004a, 2004b) analyses various ways in which men in the
archipelago have been presented. Traditional archetypical representations of men
show characters that are strong, courageous and heroic. Cigarette commercials in
particular provide an influential source of masculine ideals with men shown climbing cliffs, hang-gliding and driving jeeps. Men in these advertisements embody
values of heroism, discipline, valour, intelligence and show a penchant for romantic conquest (Clark, 2004a: 11). Yet in much new media men are increasingly portrayed as clowns, objects of ridicule and derision, and as weak and foolish
characters that are contrasted against sensible, virtuous, strong and autonomous
women. Peletz’s (1995) distinction between ‘official’ and ‘practical’ representations of masculinity and femininity is useful here as we see popular representations
of men as foolish chaffing against official representations of men as wise and
rational.
Clark (2004b) also reveals that increasingly Indonesian films are showing male
characters being beaten up or written out of the script, with older men being patronized and disregarded. For instance, one implication made in the film Kuldesak
(Achnas, Lesmana, Mantovani and Riza, 1999) is that the current generation of
men have inherited from New Order generals and bureaucrats patterns of authoritarianism, violence, corruption and deceit (Clark, 2004a: 12). Women writers have

Gendering life 105
also been depicting men in abject ways (e.g. Herliany, 2001; Utami, 1998).
Numerous current advertisements are additionally critical of men with Clark
(2004a: 13) recounting a Hexos throat lozenge commercial that shows a man
screaming hysterically at the sight of a cockroach.
While these unflattering representations of men compared with more positive
portrayals of women may be empowering for the latter in many respects, showing
men bumbling around a kitchen merely serves to reinforce the notion that they do
not belong there, women do (Clark, 2004a). While Clark (2004a) suggests that
there has been a rise in misandry and that women are no longer portrayed exclusively as mothers and homemakers, but now also as producers and consumers, he
concludes that on the whole Indonesian television commercials strengthen patriarchy and in coalition with ‘gender economics’ (Craig, 1993) continue to present
women as sex objects and as thoroughly domesticated housewives.
The role of mainstream mass media is also crucial to the way gay, lesbi and transgender Indonesians see themselves in relation to same-gender desire and love
(Boellstorff, 2005b). As Blackwood (2007: 298) comments, while certain media
representations ‘increase the visibility of lesbi and gay, at the same time they work
to stabilize normative heterosexuality by contrasting “abnormal” and sick homosexuals with “normal” heterosexuals.’ Moreover, the media invariably typecasts
transgender waria as inept larrikins rather than as individuals with fulfilling
employment and familial responsibilities. Such representations fail to provide
appropriate role models for transgressive subjects and serve merely to reinforce
abject difference.
Government policies, discourses of the family, notions of marriage and
courtship and mass media have all presented ideals of masculinity and femininity
in Indonesia. With few exceptions these portrayals have placed women within the
domestic sphere, idealizing their roles as wives and mothers. Men have been predominantly shown in the public arena, engaging with the outside world and ensuring the welfare and purity of their families. As Sen (2002: 59) notes, when Suharto
was finally forced to resign in 1998 women exited the New Order ‘as they had
entered it; as inadequate, as subhuman creatures who could be raped with impunity,
and as mothers defined by the act of feeding the children.’ Conversely, men were
crystallized as the protectors and guardians of kin. A decade on, such positionings
still seem to hold true and there remains little legitimate space for the expression of
queer subjectivities.

Gendered Islam
While certainly not all Indonesians adhere to Islam, and other religions such as
Confucianism are growing (Yang, 2005), Islam exerts a strong influence on gender
norms throughout the archipelago. Moreover, while Bennett (2004: 84) notes that
there have been clashes between Islam and the state in terms of gendered expectations, in many ways Islamic prescriptions reinforce the ideals of masculinity and
femininity outlined in the previous section. As Brenner (1995: 30) reveals for
Java, the ‘ideological declaration that men are better able than women to control

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themselves also dovetails well with Islamic gender ideologies’ (cf. Adamson,
2007). Also in respect to Java, Smith-Hefner (2006: 165) argues that social mores
are now becoming more closely aligned with Islam and less with Javanese
tradition. Islamic jurisprudence additionally plays a role in instituting heteronormativity in Indonesia (Bowen, 2003). A discussion of Islam and gender is thus
warranted.
While there is an impressive body of literature about Islam and women in
Indonesia (e.g. Adamson, 2007; W. Andaya, 2000a; Bennett, 2004; van DoornHarder, 2006; Robinson, 2004; Wieringa, 2006), a growing number of publications
on Islam in Indonesia (e.g. Eliraz, 2004; Hefner, 2000; Hooker, 2003), and two
books on gender and Islam in Indonesia (Robinson, 2008; Nurmila, 2009), to my
knowledge there are no publications specifically about Islam and heterosexual
men, although a number of publications about gender include discussions of Islam
and men (e.g. Idrus, 2003). Boellstorff does, however, pay attention to Islam’s relationship to gay and transgender males (e.g. Boellstorff, 2005a). More work therefore needs to be undertaken on how Islam sculpts all sorts of gender ideals in the
nation. There is also a need for such work to go beyond heteronormative discussions of Islam, a call Boellstorff (2006b) makes in reference to Bowen (2003).
Islam has been a powerful force shaping gender in what is now Indonesia since
Muslims began travelling to the region in the eleventh century. Barbara Watson
Andaya (2000a) notes that the earliest Islamic code evident in Southeast Asia is
from the fourteenth century and it specifically dealt with sexual misconduct and
female wantonness. Early Islamic teachings initiated significant shifts in indigenous gender norms, particularly among the upper classes whose status partly
derived from their claims to great religiosity (B. W. Andaya, 2000a: 245). Islam
was unequivocal in its view that ‘good’ women should be chaste before marriage
and faithful afterwards (B. W. Andaya, 2000a: 245), while for men there was an
expectation of sexual experience prior to marriage. Islam also infused a moral
dimension on cultural notions of gender and space. Andaya (2000a: 252) reveals
that the acceptance of Islamic seclusion built on older cultural attitudes in which
inside and inner were associated with women, particularly high-status women,
while public places were associated with men. The mosque became generally a
male preserve and in the South Sulawesi city of Makassar, Gervaise (1971[1701]:
158–9) recorded that a leading ulama divorced his wife because she had attempted
to enter the mosque where men were praying (cited in B. W. Andaya, 2000a: 246).
However, complete segregation was never instigated in Indonesia and women
continued to be involved with the outside world. Indeed James Brooke observed
that:
The Wajo [a province in South Sulawesi] women enjoy perfect liberty, and are
free from all the restraints usually imposed by the Mohomedan religion. They
are not handsome, but playful and good tempered – not modest, though very
chaste. The ladies of high rank are as indolent and self-indulgent as ladies of
high rank are apt to be.
(1848: 89–90)

Gendering life 107
Until the seventeen century, Andaya (2000a: 243) notes that women could be found
as rulers or regents throughout the Islamic archipelago. Yet between the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries greater contact with the Islamic heartlands, and
stricter ideas regarding correct behaviour for upper-class women, led to the increasing disappearance of women from the public sphere (B. W. Andaya, 2000a: 248).
Blackwood (2005a) also writes of the declining political clout and religious role of
women in Southeast Asia by the end of the eighteenth century, although she
remarks that this marginalization of power of elite women was not consistently
applied to control women in all domains or all classes and some women maintained
positions of power into the twentieth century. Crawfurd (1820: 74) noted that in
Sulawesi, ‘The women appear in public without any scandal; they take active
concern in all the business of life.’ Crawfurd continued:
The women . . . are consulted by the men on all public affairs, and frequently
raised to the throne, and that too when the monarchy is elective . . . At public
festivals, women appear among the men; and those invested with authority sit
in their councils when affairs of state are discussed, possessing, it is often
alleged, even more than their due share in the deliberations. The present sovereign of the Bugis state of Luwu in Celebes, is wife to the king of Sopeng,
another Bugis state, but the king of Sopeng does not presume to interfere in the
affairs of the state of Luwu, which are administered by his wife, his proper
queen.
(1820: 164)
The continuing influence of Islam is felt in most of contemporary Indonesia where
it permeates social life with gendered messages delivered through religious sermons, school teachings, television programmes and parental instructions.
One area where the gendered influence of Islam is particularly evident is marriage. Marriage is morally required of all Muslims (Banks, 1985) and Islam provides no valid model for individuals wishing to remain single. Once married a
woman can legitimately bear children, an achievement that accords her a level of
status (Manderson, 1980). After marriage a man officially becomes a household
head with a moral imperative to protect and support his family. However, there are
gaps between Islamic ideals of gender and their realities. For instance, a husband
should provide the main source of income but if a wife does, a husband may pass it
off by stating that he still has the power to spend her money (Munir, 2005: 20).
Islam additionally influences the roles of husbands and wives. Some translations
of the Qur’an, for example, state that men are the maintainers and protectors of their
wives because Allah has given more strength to men than to women. Moreover,
some translations state that husbands are in charge of their wives. Roald (2001:
297) argues, though, that this translation is incorrect, and that the relevant passages
in the Qur’an state that husbands should ‘have responsibility for,’ rather than ‘be in
charge of,’ their wives. Under the caveat of having responsibility for his wife, a husband should provide his spouse with food, clothing and education, and he should
protect his family from danger. If a husband does not do these things there is

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sufficient grounds for a divorce – it is possible for a Muslim woman to get a divorce,
but this has been often denied as a right in Islamic law and in contemporary Sharia
courts (see Nurmila, 2009).
Islam may be used to define which two individuals can appropriately marry.
Idrus (2004) reveals that in Indonesia both partners are expected to be of the same
religion, although some people acknowledge that conversion is a legitimate path to
ensuring religious compatibility. Islam defines how many people a person can
marry. Women can have only one husband at a time while men are allowed up to
four concomitant wives under certain circumstances. Idrus (2004: 232) notes that
in the South Sulawesi province of Sidrap, with a rough population of 240,000, there
were 20 reported cases of polygyny in 2000 and four in 2001.
Some marriage principles derive from the utterances of Prophet Muhammad.
For instance, Muhammad is cited as commanding his disciples to ‘[G]et married
and have children, have many children because it will become an indication that I
will have lots of followers in the judgement day’ (Idrus, 2004). We see here,
though, the competing influence of Indonesian government ideology. While a
number of decades ago the government promoted the philosophy of ‘many children, much fortune’ (banyak anak, banyak rezeki), the government now advocates
that ‘two children are enough’ (dua anak cukup) (Neihof and Lubis, 2003;
Robinson, 2000).
Part of the imperative to marry stems from Islam’s regulation of sexuality. The
concept of marriage in Islam is associated with the dichotomous concepts of halal
(permitted) and haram (forbidden). Because sex outside of marriage is haram, marriage is the only way to legalize sexual activities between a man and a woman
(Idrus, 2003). In accordance with the emphasis placed on heterosexual marriage
and producing children, Islam is cited as the basis for the belief that homosexual
relations are sinful (Blackwood, 1995). However, as Laurent (2005) demonstrates,
the Qu’ran does not specifically outline punishment for homosexuality.
Circumcision is another area where gender ideals have been imparted on Muslim
girls and boys in Indonesia (Bennett, 2004: 55; Budiharsana et al., 2003; Darwin,
Faturochman, Putranti, Purwatiningsih and Octaviatie, 2002; Hull and
Budiharsana, 2001; Kompas, 2004; McWilliam, 1994; Newland, 2006). Some people told me that circumcision is carried out because it is ‘tradition’ or because it
brings health benefits. Most people, though, cited Islam as the primary reason for
performing circumcision, despite the fact that there is actually no imperative to perform either female or male circumcision in the Qur’an, and there is no mention of
female circumcision in the Hadith (a collection of the sayings of Muhammad).
However, one Hadith does state that there are five obligations for cleanliness/purity
and one of these obligations for men, though not women, is circumcision (Idrus,
pers. comm. 2008). As such, some Islamic scholars argue against female circumcision, saying that the most that is permitted is the removal of a minuscule segment of
skin from the female prepuce, provided no harm is done. Islamic law protects a
woman’s right to sexual enjoyment, as demonstrated by the fact that a woman
has the right to divorce on the grounds that her husband does not provide sexual
satisfaction. It follows, then, that Islamic law prohibits clitoridectomy (partial or

Gendering life 109
complete) or infibulation, or any genital mutilation which impairs a woman’s ability to enjoy sexual relations; indeed women in Indonesia are often anxious to assure
others that symbolic or minimal circumcision does not result in a reduction of sexual function (cf. Bennett, 2004: 55). So while the issue of circumcision for boys
remains largely outside the arena of debate in Indonesia, there is dispute about
whether girls should be circumcised. For instance, Newland (2006) shows that
for many Indonesian girls, circumcision is a rite of passage that they look forward
to and celebrate, while other commentators argue that circumcision should be
abolished for girls (Kompas, 2004).
Clitoridectomies are performed in much of South Sulawesi, although they are
largely ceremonial. One early traveller to the region recorded, ‘I believe the
Macasarians are the only People of all the Mahometans that circumcise their
Women’ (Gervaise, 1971[1701]: 139). In contemporary South Sulawesi the prepubescent girl’s clitoris may be pecked by a hen, or a tiny part sliced with a knife or
a piece of sharpened bamboo, in order to draw blood. On one particular occasion
during my field work a seven-year-old girl was carried in a bamboo carriage from
her house to the home of a sanro. Dressed in a sarong the girl was seated on top of
seven sarongs. The sanro cut the crown of a hen and dotted the blood on the girl’s
forehead and face. The sanro then took a small knife and under the girl’s sarong cut
a small part off the clitoris. The miniscule segment of skin was wrapped in leaves
and placed in the roof, a location that helps ensure the girl will become a person of
great respect and status. After the procedure, the girl was physically fine to move
around. On another occasion, a teenager commented to me that although all
Muslim girls are circumcised, including herself, she does not know why. She noted
that boys are circumcised for hygiene reasons, but posited this was not the case with
girls. She had been told, though, that women could still enjoy sex and reach orgasm
after circumcision. Idrus (pers. comm. 2008) further comments that the intention
behind female circumcision in South Sulawesi is not to eliminate sexual enjoyment
and many parents are now reluctant to have their daughters circumcised.
Islam outlines additional gendered ideals in respect to dress. Muslim women are
expected to be modest in demeanour and attire with many Islamist magazines displaying the latest busana Muslimah (Muslim clothing) fashions – indeed there is
now an ‘Islamic Barbie’ (Yaqin, 2007). Moreover, Bennett (2004: 48–54) reveals
that many Indonesian Muslim women are currently discussing self-presentation in
terms of sensual modesty, which not only encompasses covering their bodies but
also regulating their speech. Indonesian Muslim men are expected to dress in a
respectful manner, particularly when entering a mosque.
Behaviours are defined in gendered terms within Islam. While generally permitting men freedom of movement, Islam can be used to restrict women’s movements
and regulate their social conduct. Islamic offices may discipline the social conduct
of individuals, subjecting women to religious surveillance and sanctions. Ong
(1990: 410–11) notes for neighbouring Malaysia that factory women found walking around at night are sometimes threatened with arrest for khalwat (close proximity) to men who are not holders of Islamic offices. Islam also structures romantic
liaisons. If an unmarried couple is considering engaging in sexual activity, general

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advice disseminated through various forms of media encourages primarily women
to avoid temptation by reading the Qur’an and praying as much as possible
(Harding, 2008).
There has long been discussion about the appropriate roles for Muslim men and
women in the field of politics. During the 1950s there was debate in the Indonesian
Constituent Assembly around Islam and women in politics. One extreme opponent
of women in politics was Radja Kaprabonan who argued that ‘men ruled women
because they were more noble and more intelligent. Men were the protectors of
women’ (cited in Robinson, 2004: 185). This view received little support within the
Assembly though, with other members publicly stating that Islam in fact guarantees
equality between men and women. Robinson (2004: 186) argues that this latter
view mirrors the notion that Islam is considered to primarily affect women’s position in the family, not their right to participate in public life.
Debates about whether a woman president was acceptable under Islamic doctrine, and if so would Indonesians accept a woman president, were specifically
heard at the turn of the millennium. In 1997, debate among 100 kiyai religious
scholars from Nahdlatul Ulama determined that Islam was not an obstacle to
women holding high office (Robinson, 2004: 187). Indeed Munir (2005) notes that
there are 30 versus in the Qur’an that support gender equality, although interpretations of Islam do often run counter to Islam’s basic principles of equality and justice. For instance, some Indonesian commentators have argued that men are the
leaders/managers (pemimpin) of women and thus women are ill equipped for
engaging in the world of politics. While there is indeed a statement within Islamic
teachings stating that men are the leaders of women, the verse actually refers to the
organization of the household and in this case was generalized to include politics
(Robinson, 2004: 189).
When Megawati Sukarnoputri was installed as president in 2001 it became clear
that Indonesia would tolerate a woman leader, showing that in general Islam has not
been used in the nation-state to promote a limiting view of women’s participation
in public life (Robinson, 2002, 2004: 195). However, throughout her presidency
Megawati presented herself and was presented as a sensitive and devoted mother
figure who could have been ‘easily overlaid with mythologies of mother goddesses
and evocations of the motherland’ (Sen, 2002). Megawati conformed to feminine
ideals espoused within Islam of being meek, submissive and never abrasive. In rare
interviews and speeches she played on the image of herself as mother and both
Megawati’s critics and supporters constructed her first and foremost as a mother
and a daughter (Sen, 2002: 54). In a similar way, Megawati’s father, Sukarno, was
portrayed as a benevolent father figure during his presidency (1945–67). As can be
seen, political leaders in Indonesia draw on Islamic ideals of gender to support their
candidatures.
Islam has thus played a significant role in shaping gender within Indonesia.
While the above sections predominantly show regulatory influences, Islam has also
played affirmative roles in defining gender norms in the nation. In respect to politics, for example, there was relatively little protest voiced from within Islamic circles over Megawati’s presidency, and Islam was even cited by some as the basis for

Gendering life 111
equal political representation. Moreover, as later chapters reveal, levels of acceptance and support for gender and sexual diversity are also extended from an Islamic
base. It will be interesting to see, though, how current increases in discussions of
homosexuality in Indonesia impact Boellstorff’s (2005a) notion of the incommensurability between Islam and gay subjectivity. In general, though, Islam provides a
limiting view of gender in Indonesia by officially prescribing specific ideals of
masculinity and femininity and exclusively promoting heteronormative lifestyles.

Gendered honour
This section further examines processes of gendering in Indonesia by looking at
how the Bugis notion of siri’ operates to ensure people follow gendered norms.
Matthes (1885: 583) defined siri’ as meaning ashamed, diffident, shy, shame, sense
of honour, disgrace (cf. Gervaise, 1971[1701]: 67–8; Mustafa, Tangke and
Nasyaruddin, 2003).7 In Bugis South Sulawesi siri’ prescriptions continue to regulate appropriate gendered behaviour. In the first part of this section I show that
women must adhere to ideal notions of femininity to avoid causing their family to
feel siri’, while in the second part I show how men must embody masculine ideals
to preserve and restore their family’s siri’.
A Bugis woman is conceived of as being the primary symbol of her family’s siri’.
She is the point at which her family’s good name is anchored. As such, a woman’s
behaviour is closely monitored to ensure she does not act in any way that might
threaten her family’s siri’ and thus their social standing. One of the commonest
ways that a woman can damage siri’ is through illegitimate relations with a man and
it is on such relationships that the strictest sanctions are applied.
Siri’ considerations demand that women be circumspect in their meetings with
men. Restrictions have eased since the 1940s, though, where contact, even a glance,
between a young, unmarried Bugis woman and a man, if discovered, made the
woman’s male relatives siri’ (Millar, 1983: 484). Contemporary settings where
young women and men meet, although not always legitimately, include, especially
in urban centres, cinemas, sporting events, school, public spaces such as shopping
malls and through family acquaintances. For instance, older brothers may bring
friends home to visit. Young people also meet at marriage festivities where the
large number of people in attendance transforms these public events into safe environments where women and men can socialize without breeching siri’ conventions
(Idrus, 2003).
Courtship is a time when there is heightened risk of an illegitimate relationship
forming. While sometimes no courtship takes place before marriage, for example
one of my host-cousins met his wife for the first time on the day of their wedding,
many couples are at least able to develop a friendship before marriage without causing siri’. More traditional forms of courtship that continue to operate today involve
young men being entertained at the young woman’s house where family members
are close by to ensure no siri’ violation ensues. Another form of courtship, ‘backstreet courtship’ (pacaran bekstrit), is conducted in secret and if such a liaison is
discovered the woman and her family experience pronounced feelings of siri’

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(cf. Bennett, 2004; Idrus, 2003). To avoid pacaran bekstrit a woman’s behaviour is
closely controlled, in part by requiring young women to be home before evening
prayers. The array of restrictions and regulations exacted on women’s behaviour is
a key reason why so few females identify as calalai, as Puang Sulai, an elderly
Bugis man expressly notes:
There are so few calalai because women are more nurtured (dipelihara). If a
woman goes anywhere she must have a companion (pendamping). A woman’s
behaviour is much more strictly controlled than men’s.
(Puang Sulai)
Men are generally under no such obligation to curtail their movements or their
romantic relationships with women and indeed heterosexual courtship of whatever
form usually serves to boost a man’s masculinity.
While intimate time alone together is generally not legitimately possible, there
are occasional times when couples form a close relationship before marriage. For
instance, one of my host-brothers and his girlfriend lived together for a number of
years before they wed. When I related this to a Bugis friend, however, her first
response was, ‘Surely they did not live in Sengkang.’ And indeed they did not; they
lived in the capital city of Makassar. This friend’s comment reinforces the general
sense of inappropriateness and the related siri’ of an unmarried Bugis couple living
together.
Siri’ considerations also prescribe norms of sexual behaviour. Heterosexuality is
stipulated for both men and women and relationships outside of this coupling generally result in siri’, although as other chapters reveal this is not always the case.
Siri’ conventions provide little more in the way of regulation for men in terms of
sexuality. While premarital sex is permissible for men, if a woman is caught engaging in sex outside of marriage siri’ is caused. During one particular conversation,
which took place in Sulawesi in 2007, a woman in her 30s openly discussed the
prevalence of sex among today’s youth, accentuating how such behaviour brought
siri’ on women and their families. The woman started by rhetorically asking me,
‘So you think Bugis youth are chaste?’ There was a clear implication that I should
perceive they were. Before I could answer she told me that they were not, that
young couples went to hotels to have sex, or they had sex at their dorms or at home
when their parents were out. She noted that some young women get pregnant and
have abortions. The woman also commented that while young women know about
the Pill and condoms, contraceptives are hard to access for unmarried people.
Indeed Harding (2008) joins Bennett (2004) and Holzner and Oetomo (2004) in
arguing that there is a real need for young people in Indonesia to be able to access
relevant and reliable sexual health information and contraceptives. The woman
concluded by suggesting that women give the impression of purity so as not to
cause siri’ but that this image is far from reality. The woman did not reprimand
unmarried men for engaging in sex or for their part in unplanned pregnancies,
though, reinforcing the notion that it is acceptable for men, but not for women, to
have unprotected sex outside of marriage.

Gendering life 113
There is encouragement within the caveat of siri’ for men to be sexually
assertive. Conversely, if Bugis women are sexually assertive they will cause their
family to feel siri’. This dichotomy links into a wider Indonesian discourse of male
and female sexuality that assumes women to be less desirous than men and men to
be more sexually assertive than women (Bennett, 2004: 61). Yet while in principle
a sexually assertive woman will bring about feelings of siri’, this prescription does
not always reflect women’s own perceptions of the sexual dynamics of their relationships either in contemporary South Sulawesi or the imagined past of Bugis. For
instance, in the following passage from the epic La Galigo, an epic that is explored
in more depth in Chapter 4, an account is given of the first time Wé Cudai’ and her
husband Sawérigading make love face-to-face:
Sawérigading, dizzy from palm wine, drowsy from drink, could no longer control his desire and swept up his wife and carried her into her room and laid her
down within the curtains of her bed. They embraced each other and exchanged
sirih leaves from each other’s mouths. She floated on his broad chest and he
stroked her tenderly, the way he would stroke a fighting cock. She wrapped
herself around him like thread around a spool. He lifted her to the Upper World
and they sank to the bottom of the Underworld. Their bodies fitted together like
a pot with a perfect lid. Sawérigading spent the whole night caressing his wife.
Wé Cudai’ was already very skilled at celebrating within the curtains. Like a
fighting cock, Wé Cudai’ was already an expert at the attack in the little chamber within the bed curtains. She was no longer embarrassed to attack over and
over inside the silken sarong.
(adapted from Darling, 2004b: 33).
While this account suggests that within the legitimate confines of heterosexual
marriage a woman can be sexually assertive, generally siri’ conventions require
that women be sexually passive and submissive.
Expressions of public affection towards the opposite sex, such as hand holding,
have long resulted in siri’ violations. Yet Harding (2008) reveals that such displays,
even including kissing, are no longer exceptional in urban centres in Indonesia.
This trend of rising romantic boldness is a cause of concern for many conservative
Indonesians who link such behaviour with the influence of a supposed decadent
West (Harding, 2008). For example, a seething Abu Al-Ghifari (2001) asserts that
‘Television . . . has spread poisonous sexual desires to all corners of the country . . .
So don’t be surprised if sexual offences and crimes are widespread throughout
Indonesia . . . Youth behaviour grows more and more depraved’ (cited in Harding,
2008: 1). Such rhetoric competes with more liberal tendencies in shaping how siri’
conventions structure acceptable forms of romantic relationships in Bugis South
Sulawesi.
The concern around individuals causing siri’ through illicit romantic relationships means that Bugis children, especially girls, are instructed early on about
the importance of heterosexual marriage. Indeed remaining unmarried in the
wider Indonesia context is problematic with the unmarried self being seen as an

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incomplete subject (Boellstorff, 1999). If Bugis women do not marry it is seen as
related to their saleability (e.g. no one is willing to pay the required brideprice
because she is not considered worthy), while if Bugis men do not marry it is seen as
related to sexual dysfunction (e.g. they may be calabai) (Idrus, 2003: 134).
If a Bugis woman does not marry, she damages her entire family’s siri’. There
are, however, exceptional cases where women are not expected to marry, such as
high-status women who are unable to find suitably ranked men (Florida, 1996). For
example, born in the 1930s, the diminutive and feisty Puang Sari never married and
most people commented that the reason for this was that there were no men of equal
or higher status for her to marry, although some people said it was because she
intimidated all the men. Just a year before she passed away in 2003 she told me with
a smirk:
You know the real reason I never married? It was because I have a bad personality and anyone who lived with me would have strangled me by now because
I am too bossy! Also, all the men here are too tall. If you find a short man in
Australia, Serly (Sharyn), send him over to me!
(Puang Sari)
I also met a number of women in their 30s who were not (yet) married (belum
nikah). They generally explained their single status as a personal choice resulting
from their reluctance to relinquish the freedom to travel and visit relatives, and to
assume responsibility of caring for a husband and children. Yet while Nilan (2003:
49) notes that marriage may reinforce the structurally lower status of women compared to men, it is still better for women to marry than not. Idrus (2003: 110) also
posits that it is preferable for Bugis women to divorce or be widowed than become
old maids.
I became acquainted with a few men in their 40s or older who were belum nikah.
These men said they were focusing on their careers first and/or did not yet have sufficient assets to fund a wedding. While some people hinted that such men might be
calabai, these men were not viewed as suspiciously as older unmarried women.
Nevertheless, a great deal of pressure is exerted on all Bugis to marry and have children, and very few individuals, especially women, are willing to sacrifice their family’s siri’ by refusing to wed.
If siri’ is caused, for example through an extra-marital affair, both parties have
damaged their standing. But, it is generally the woman’s family that is to masiri’ (B,
people who are made to defend siri’). This dynamic reveals the double standard
operating in cases of siri’ (cf. Idrus, 2003). For instance, during my field work an
incident of silariang (B, elopement, literally to ‘run away together’) happened
within my host-family. My host-cousin was secretly seeing a young woman and
when she got pregnant the couple ran away. After the baby was born they returned
and in order to restore siri’ they had a formal official marriage, which included the
young man’s relations going to the bride’s house to propose to her family. While
both families were made siri’, the women’s relatives bore the greatest weight of
shame.

Gendering life 115
When a transgression of social forms takes place it is a woman’s male relatives
who bear primary responsibility for immediately defending impugned family siri’
(cf. Chabot, 1996[1950]: 234–55; Millar, 1983: 484). For example, if a man’s
unmarried sister is found involved in an intimate relationship with another man, the
brother should avenge his family’s siri’ and this may involve killing both his sister
and her lover. If a man does not defend his family’s siri’ by reacting in an appropriate way, a further case of siri’ arises and the man becomes mate-siri’ (B, socially
dead). A man who is mate-siri’ ceases to have any meaningful involvement in the
world (Millar, 1983: 484). Furthermore, such a man may also be labelled calabai
(Idrus, 2003: 59), suggesting transgender and homosexual males are often rendered
as cultural symbols of the inverse of masculine men (cf. Prieur, 1998).
While revenge killings in response to siri’ violations are less common nowadays,
I did hear of a number of cases during my field work. On one occasion a
man stabbed to death another man for having an affair with his wife (cf. Thontowi,
1997). I also heard of a woman who came across her husband’s lover in the
market and stabbed her to death. This latter example suggests that women also
carry out acts of siri’ restoration, although it was not made clear whether this
woman’s actions actually restored siri’ or brought about a further case of siri’. On
both occasions a badi’ knife is said to have been used, which follows the convention that revenge killings must take place in the open using a badi’. Indeed, there
is a widespread stereotype that all Bugis, including women, carry knives (Adam,
2007).
Siri’ conventions prescribe numerous qualities Bugis men need to ensure both
that siri’ violations do not occur and that if they do, a family’s siri’ is quickly
restored. As a result of the imperative to protect female kin, Bugis men have the
reputation of being overly jealous. In the eighteenth century, Gervaise recorded
that Bugis husbands:
. . . of all Men in the world are certainly the most jealous. A Woman that should
have the confidence to give her hand to her Husband’s best Friend, to smile
upon him as she pass’d by, or to cast her eyes upon him but for a moment,
would be syspected of Infidelity, and might be justly repudiated. And therefore
for the sake of their Reputation, and the preservation of peace in their Families,
they keep themselves shut up in their Chambers, not daring to admit the Visits
of their Brothers, or their Brothers in Law, but in the presence of their
Husbands . . . The Law likewise permits ’em to kill a Man, whoever he be, if
they find him alone with their Wives . . . But as severe and cruel as the Law is
in respect of the Women, it is mild and indulgent in regard of the Men. It permits ’em to do whatever they please, not allowing the unhappy Wives to make
the least complaint of their Husband’s Conduct.
(1971[1701]: 67–8)
Gervaise presents a very different picture of the position of women from that
recorded a century later by Brooke (1848: 75), whose comments regarding
women’s influential role in public life were recounted earlier. Notwithstanding

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these differing views, it is expected that men will be particularly vigilant concerning the movements and activities of female relatives.
One of the key attributes underlying a man’s ability to protect women from situations that cause siri’ is bravery (warani, B). Andaya (2004: 69) states that in the
past, songs were used to exhort male soldiers in South Sulawesi to be brave in battle. References to wives and lovers were also invoked to cause shame if the men
proved cowardly in facing the enemy. Moreover, before embarking for battle, men
were both encouraged and challenged by women, with wives not uncommonly saying that if they heard that their husbands conducted themselves in a cowardly manner they might take another husband (L. Andaya, 2004: 73).
Encouragement for boys to be brave begins from a young age. One day my fiveyear-old host-nephew stood at the top of the house ladder and refused to climb
down, saying he was scared (takut). His father loudly chastised him: ‘What, do you
want to grow up to be scared like a girl?’ In contrast to boys, girls are portrayed as
ideally being fragile like glass and embodying the concept of malebbi’ (B, refined
passivity and modesty). Women’s supposed fragility is used to reinforce men’s
bravery.
Part of being brave requires Bugis men to act aggressively. Yet aggression is not
necessarily considered a biological given. Rather, Millar (1983: 488) asserts, ‘Men
are expected to act aggressively, not because of hormonal impulses but in order to
correct any doubts cast upon family siri’.’ Aggressive behaviour can thus increase
a man’s respect and social status. Unjustified and uncontrolled aggression,
however, can cause siri’ so aggressive acts must conform to accepted protocols.
Aggressive behaviour is generally considered a negative quality in women and
violent outbursts result in cases of siri’. For instance, if two girls fight together they
will cause feelings of siri’ for both respective families (Idrus, 2003: 59).
Aggressive behaviour in women does not always cause siri’, though. Pelras (1996:
164) comments that Bugis women aggressively participated in the struggle for
Indonesian independence and in the early nineteenth century Crawfurd noted that
in neighbouring Makassar a woman:
presented herself among the warriors of her party drawn out before the enemy,
upbraided them for their tardiness in the attack, in lofty terms, and demanded a
spear, that she might show them an example. Encouraged by her exhortations,
it appears they went forth, and gained an advantage.
(1820: 74)
While siri’ conventions dictate who can legitimately carry out aggressive acts,
when aggressive actions are socially appropriate, and how aggressive behaviour
can be expressed, social status additionally defines protocols of aggression. For
instance, while aggressive acts might be an encouraged form of siri’ restoration for
a man of low social status, a man of high social status is generally less able to
acceptably express aggression.
A person’s social status determines more than just how siri’ regulates gendered
displays of aggression. While one of the most pervasive feminine ideals requires

Gendering life 117
women to be reserved in public life and to remain at home whenever possible, this
ideal is usually attainable only by wealthy families. For other families, women’s
daily engagement with the outside world, most obviously in the paid workforce, is
unavoidable. So while a daughter employed in a menial job may lower the status
of a high ranking affluent family and cause siri’, the same does not necessarily
apply to a low ranking, less well-off, family, as the following field work excerpt
highlights:
On the way to Makassar this morning we stopped at the petrol station just outside of Sengkang to fill up. Greg [my supervisor who was visiting] noted that
two of the four pump attendants were women. The two men were sitting on
stools next to the pumps collecting the money. The two women, with oily rags
tied around their faces and tracksuits on, were filling up the tanks. I was taken
aback because this type of work seems in contrast to ideals of femininity that
women are supposed to exude – cleanliness, softness, refinement. For
instance, a while ago a man named Pak Rudin told me, ‘Bugis women are not
like Balinese woman who have to work on the roads. Bugis women are honoured and respected; if there is dirty work that needs doing, the men do it.’ And
Haji Ismail said that more Bugis women go on the hajj than men because men
honour their wives so much. However, the passengers in the van said that they
were just average women (wanita biasa) doing a job. There was no siri’ associated with them working at a petrol station.
(Field notes, 2000)
This narrative reveals that siri’ principles are flexible in dealing with different life
patterns. Status does not necessarily correspond to wealth, though, and often highstatus people are monetarily poor. A high-status person employed in a menial job
would reduce their family’s status and possibly bring about feelings of siri’.
The analysis in this section specifically showed how siri’ considerations shape
gendered subjectivities in Bugis society. Because a woman’s standing is a fixed
point against which her family’s status is measured, a woman must not bring about
siri’. To avoid siri’ women need to adhere to numerous depictions of proper conduct and behaviour. As it is the responsibility of a woman’s male kin to prevent her
from causing siri’, siri’ conventions demand that men embody qualities such as
bravery. Bravery is also required of men in order for them to restore their family’s
siri’ if an infringement takes place. We see here how siri’ differently shapes and
affects Bugis gender: women must follow feminine prescriptions in order to avoid
causing siri’ while men must follow masculine prescriptions in order to defend and
restore siri’ violations.
Siri’ does not have a timeless quality to it; there have been many changes. For
instance, eye contact between unmarried women and men is no longer a source of
siri’ and in the future heterosexual hand-holding, and even kissing, in public may
cease to result in siri’. Siri’ also incorporates various anomalies. We see such anomalies in cases where past Bugis queens appeared in public alongside men, riding
horses and visiting foreigners while more recent siri’ conventions would seem to

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prohibit such behaviour. To a large extent, then, it is precisely because definitions
of siri’ are constantly changing that siri’ considerations continue to bear heavily on
Bugis gender formation.
* * * *
In Indonesia, individuals live with powerful discourses asserting what being born
male or being born female should entail. Gender ideals are internalized by subjects
and these discourses shape subjectivities through habituated routines and bodily
disciplines and through social and thought control (Foucault, 1977a). As this chapter has shown, various discourses combine to produce ideals of masculinity and
femininity in Indonesia. Such discourses are pervasive and weave their way into all
areas of social life. Rather than relying on personal narratives alone, this chapter
also focused on the cultural narratives and practices that produce gendered subjects
and analysed the creation and workings of the concepts femininity and masculinity.
In exploring gender considerations in the archipelago this chapter has served three
aims. First, it has shown that gender is an important part of Indonesian social life
and that it is a clearly articulated concept. Second, the chapter revealed the very
intensive processes at work that promote specific ideals of femininity and masculinity. Third, this chapter serves as a reference point for later discussions on
behaviours that do not conform to idealized models. While this chapter has concentrated primarily on normative gender expectations, the following chapters focus
on calalai, calabai and bissu. Knowing the discursive context in which calalai,
calabai and bissu live allows appreciation of their subject positions.

6

Calalai subject positions

The first part of this book explored understandings and experiences of gender.
While I incorporated ethnographic material, much of the information was drawn
from published sources. In contrast, this chapter, along with the following two,
relies primarily on ethnographic data I collected in Indonesia between 1998 and
2008. While some of the material appears in truncated form elsewhere (Davies,
2007a, 2007b; Graham, 2001), this chapter provides the space to incorporate fuller
personal narratives and explore in more depth representations and experiences of
calalai (masculine females). This fuller inclusion is important because, as Sinnott
(2007: 126) has recently commented, female masculinity cross-culturally remains
an under-researched topic. Similarly, there remains a paucity of material on female
same-sex sexuality. As Boellstorff (2007b: 21) notes, ‘Weston’s (1993) observation that “particularly lacking are data on homosexuality and homoeroticism
among women outside the United States” (p. 345) remains accurate.’ Blackwood
(2000: 223) makes clear the need for more such research by noting that,
‘Anthropological studies of female same-sex relations in non-Western societies
provide an important source for theorizing women’s sexuality because they allow
us to go beyond a narrow focus on Western cultures and concepts.’ This dedicated
chapter on female masculinity and female same-sex desire is additionally significant as it provides a site where female experiences can be examined in their own
right rather than being subsumed under male experiences or conflated with gay
men. For instance, Valocchi’s (2005) review of Seidman (2002) assumes that the
experiences of lesbians are the same as for gay men.
In exploring calalai subject positions and contextualizing the environment in
which calalai negotiate gender this chapter is divided into five sections. The initial
section presents reasons given for the low number of individuals identifying as
calalai. This section focuses on the voices of the general public, not to give secondary importance to calalai narratives, which fill the rest of the chapter, but to outline
the structural and discursive barriers calalai navigate. The second section looks
specifically at calalai accounts, investigating both the pervasiveness of gender
norms and the pressures individuals feel to conform to these. The following section
assesses calalai engagements with masculinity before turning in the fourth section
to examine calalai gender dynamics. The chapter closes by discussing wider social
views of calalai and calalai social interactions.

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Limited gender spaces
While many Bugis have heard of the subject position calalai, or one of its cognates
such as tomboi, general knowledge of calalai is limited. Indeed Pak Gaob, a middle-aged Bugis man, sought clarification of the term:
Sharyn:

There are lots of calabai (transgender males) in
Sengkang, but not many calalai. Why is this?
Pak Gaob:
Do you mean people with female genitalia, but who
are inclined to be men? (Maksudnya, jenis kelaminan
wanita, cenderung lelaki?)
Sharyn:
Yes.
Pak Gaob:
I don’t know either. I’ve never met any calalai.
Perhaps there aren’t any calalai in Sengkang.
Sakir (Pak Gaob’s friend): Yes, there are. I know a calalai.
It is possible that Pak Gaob is motivated by politeness and does not acknowledge
calalai in order to avoid the siri’ (B, shame) it might cause that person’s family.
However, people who knew of calalai were generally forthcoming with information and, while theoretically having a calalai relative may cause siri’, in practice this
was certainly not always the case. Sakir interjected that he knew of a calalai but
when pressed he could give no further information. Indeed even when an account
of calalai was offered the information given was generally perfunctory:
Yeah, I know a calalai. Hir name is Kak Sul and s/he’s 41 years old and s/he’s
lived like husband and wife with a woman for the last five years. Hir appearance is just like a man. S/he’s got short hair, s/he smokes cigarettes, and s/he’s
really rough and s/he wears men’s shirts, but sometimes s/he wears skirts
because it’s already a habit. S/he has worked for President Suharto and the
Mayor of East Jakarta. S/he’s called Kak (elder sibling) Sul and even the
Mayor calls hir Kak Sul because he’s afraid of offending hir. Kak Sul often
goes to the Mayor’s house, and s/he has to tell people about their health and
their future. S/he’s got supernatural powers; she’s a paranormal.
(Andi Lutfi, 28-year-old man)
Andi Lutfi’s claim that Kak Sul has supernatural powers draws on a wider
Indonesian discourse associating liminal individuals with the spiritual realm. The
simplified above account reflects the limited general understanding in South
Sulawesi of calalai subjectivity. A primary reason for the lack of recognition of
calalai is that very few individuals identify as such.
In developing gendered selves, females in Indonesia are faced with powerful discourses concerning what being born female should entail. As Chapter 5 showed,
various dominant discourses present models of women as the embodiment of family honour and as wives and mothers. Alternative images of women are rarely portrayed, except as examples of how women should not be; although Chapter 4

Calalai subject positions 121
revealed that Bugis women have been rulers of certain domains and active participants in public life. Indeed, females who ignore the imperatives to be heterosexual
wives and mothers face degrees of social prejudice and harassment. For example,
Yayu, a 25-year-old man, shows his contempt for calalai by noting that, ‘lesbi
(calalai) are less moral, and it’s tabu (taboo) that’s why there are not many.’ Strict
models of womanhood and the often severe penalties invoked for violating them,
explain in large part why very few individuals identify as calalai.
The influence families have over female kin is a further reason for few individuals identifying as calalai. In conversations about gender many Bugis stress that
women are highly protected by their family and hence women have little scope for
moving outside expected gender norms. For example, Pak Mansur, a 39-year-old
man, noted, ‘There are fewer calalai [than calabai] because women are more
guarded (dijaga) by their family.’
Another common narrative concerning why there are so few calalai relates to the
lack of social roles for calalai. A male university student in his late twenties specifically connected this lack of social role with patriarchal control:
Sharyn: Why do you think there are so few calalai, Guf?
Guf:
In my opinion, it’s because calalai don’t have any real role in Bugis society. Any position in which they might have been able to play a role has
already been filled. So there isn’t any space for calalai. You see, calabai
do all the work at weddings; there is no job left for calalai.
Sharyn: Why don’t calalai create a role for themselves?
Guf:
That wouldn’t be possible. Calalai would be competing with men, and I
don’t think men would give them much chance to get a position in society. Calalai have no one to support them. They have no power. You have
to be rich and powerful.
In the above narrative Guf sees no possibility of calalai gaining a respected position
in society because they would have to compete with men; a competition which he
believes calalai could not win. Guf also notes that calabai have taken on roles at
weddings leaving no opportunity for calalai to gain employment in that sector.
Indeed, comparison is often made between calalai and calabai, with calabai being
exhorted as self-starters who have established roles for themselves in hairdressing,
cooking and wedding organization while calalai are presented as unassertive and
lazy. Puang Sulai, an elderly high-ranking noble man, hints at this in the following
passage where he places calalai in a passive role, discounting calalai agency:
There are not many calalai because they lack the role and function that have been
given to calabai. Calalai have never had a specific role in Bugis society and as a
result they have really low status in society. They never had a role in the palace.
(Puang Sulai)
Puang Sulai draws on historical precedent here, noting that because calalai did not
have a specific social role in the past there have never been many individuals who

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identify as such. Other people more specifically related the low visibility of calalai
to the notion that while calalai are keen to perform masculine work, this is not
always possible, or if it is, it goes unnoticed by general society:
There are not so many calalai who can do the work of men. But there are some
calalai who do the work of men, but this type of work is rarely visible to people. For instance, calalai work in the fields and are invisible to the rest of society, unlike calabai who are so visible in their work at weddings and in salons.
There’s also a difference with their jiwa (spirit). A calabai’s jiwa is outgoing,
they want to be popular, they want to be popular entertainers (seniman tenar),
and they want to be seen. Calalai are more reserved.
(Haji Muhammad, middle-aged man, religious leader)
For Haji Muhammad, calalai are unassuming and engage in work that is outside the
public eye. In the above account calalai are painted as choosing to remain socially
invisible; Haji Muhammad neglects to note, though, that in many ways calalai have
no viable option other than to be circumspect in social situations.
Females who do not conform to dominant models of femininity in Bugis South
Sulawesi generally find it exceedingly difficult, and risky, to publicly identify as
calalai. As a result, asserting oneself as calalai is not something calalai tend to do.
Similarly, Sinnott (2004: 142) found in Thailand that toms and dees (roughly butch
and femme lesbians) do not generally position themselves as openly challenging
society. Moreover, directly identifying as tom or dee is uncommon because the act
of verbal declaration of self is seen as too confrontational, even though toms are
visually obvious. In South Sulawesi, individuals who do publicly assert themselves
at some level as calalai continue to be wary about broadcasting their subject position and are cautious in their conversations with unfamiliar people. For instance,
when I first met Dilah, a calalai who was then in hir twenties, s/he assumed I was a
journalist writing a sensationalist story about lesbian love affairs and understandably s/he was reluctant to talk to me. Public condemnation of visible female difference and female desire in Indonesia ultimately perpetuates individual’s reluctance
to publicly transgress social norms, reinforcing a preference for subterranean forms
of expression (Bennett, 2004: 94). As a result of this preference, few individuals
openly identify as calalai. I turn now to explore calalai narratives in more depth,
focusing on the experiences of four calalai: Rani, Dilah, Ance’ and Maman.

Gender discourses and agency
As females, all calalai I met recognized the pressures placed on them to marry men
and have children. Not only did such imperatives come from school curricula, daily
Islamic sermons, state ideology and the mass media, but parents and extended family were particularly assertive in this regard. As Blackwood (1999: 193) correspondingly found for Sumatra, ‘The constant pressure to get married and the threat
of forcible marriage reveal the way one’s body in this culture determines one’s gender.’ The pressure to marry heterosexually is not only found in Indonesia, though.

Calalai subject positions 123
Indeed Burstin (1999: 144) provides an interesting analogy in Australia where
women also face pressure to marry heterosexually.
After Dilah celebrated hir 30th birthday, hir parents become increasingly concerned that their daughter would never marry a man and bear them grandchildren.
In a decisive effort to facilitate Dilah’s entry into adult womanhood, hir parents
attempted to orchestrate hir marriage:
Yeah, I’d like to have children, I just don’t want to get married. Ugh! I could
adopt a baby so I wouldn’t have to sleep with a man. But if I did have to marry,
you know if my parents force me, which they’ve tried to do before, but I always
tell them their selection isn’t suitable (cocok), then I’d just stay with him until
I was pregnant and then I’d find a lines (a femme partner of calalai) because
you know, a hunter (calalai) can’t change hir feelings, hir make-up. You can’t
change your fate (kodrat), hey. Once a hunter, always a hunter, you know?
(Dilah)
Living in Indonesia, Dilah is aware that it is only through heterosexual marriage
that s/he can become a legitimate mother. In acknowledging this Dilah is possibly
prepared to marry for the sake of children but s/he declares that after s/he is pregnant s/he will return to hir life as a hunter. While normative discourses of gender are
powerful regulators of behaviour, the finer tenets are not always observed.
Dilah’s boldness to modify gendered expectations stems in part from hir access
to transnational discourses. Access to such discourses is dictated through class, as
Murray (1999) found in her work with lesbians in Jakarta. Dilah, like most calalai I
met, comes from a family that could be described as working class. In part, this
means that Dilah does not have the same relationship with media, technology and
travel as do wealthier Indonesians. For instance, as of 2008 Dilah was yet to set up
an email account and s/he had only made one trip outside of Sulawesi and that was
to Java. Indeed Silvey (2000b) reveals that the female-gendered metaphor of the
1997–9 Asian financial crises adversely affected women’s mobility in South
Sulawesi. Yet as Manalansan (2006) asserts, even people who are ‘marooned’ in
one place are still influenced by ongoing political, economic and cultural happenings elsewhere. Manalansan (2006: 330) thus calls for more attention to be paid to
mobile cultures that have been brought about not only by past and contemporary
diasporic and migratory movements of people, but also by technological innovations that have disseminated transnational discourses of gender. So while Dilah
only infrequently travels and does not yet access technology to the same extent as
others, hir subject position is still influenced by wider goings-on (cf. Blackwood,
2008). For instance, Dilah has a mobile phone and frequently engages in SMS texting, an undertaking that facilitates hir participation in calalai social networks.
Dilah’s engagement with wider discourses of gender provides the opportunity
and impetus for hir to develop creative responses to the gendered expectations
placed on hir.
Thirty-four-year-old Ance’ also experiences gender norms in a dynamic way.
Being female s/he realized very young that s/he was expected to marry a man and

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bear children. As s/he grew older, however, the presumed naturalness of hir desire
to do so did not come to fruition. Ance’ never liked playing with other girls, putting
on dresses, serving guests tea and biscuits, or any of the things a girl was expected
to do in order to learn what being a woman entailed. S/he hated helping hir mother
and older sisters in the kitchen and always found an excuse to help hir father, or to
go off playing with hir brothers. While hir behaviour was tolerated when s/he was
young, as s/he grew up the pressures on hir to marry became stronger. And indeed,
like Dilah, Ance’ wanted to have children, it was just the strict model of womanhood available to hir that s/he detested.
In negotiating hir position within Bugis society, Ance’ knew there were certain
ineluctable propositions: s/he was female bodied; a male was required to produce
children; legitimate children could only be born within the context of heterosexual
marriage; s/he would find it almost impossible to uphold feminine ideals; and s/he
would have a hard time conforming to the expectations of a wife. While the outcome
of Ance’s deliberations was unorthodox, given the circumstances in which s/he
lives it was logical: Ance’ married a calabai (a feminine male). When Ance’ told me
this, I must have looked rather surprised because Ance”s aunt said to the lady sitting
next to her, ‘Look here, Puang, this bule (foreigner) just can’t believe that a calalai
and a calabai could possibly marry!’ In so doing, Ance’ was legitimately able to
have children because hir spouse was male, and yet s/he continued, when practical,
to work outside the house and pursue masculine activities. Ance’s spouse, Wawal,
similarly retained hir capacity to work inside the house, associate with women and
enact a type of femininity. Ance’ and Wawal also reconceptualized their sexual subjectivities, suggesting that sexuality can be something unstable, a position developed by discursive structures rather than purely the innate property of individuals.
In their marriage, Ance’ and Wawal thus showed degrees of agency.
Parker (2005b: 65) notes that agency is a constructive term that can be used to
refer to a capacity for pragmatism and for meaning- and identity-making that are
not necessarily radical or revolutionary in intent. Agency, as opposed to resistance,
does not need to be a direct challenge to power structures, but can be deployed
towards self-serving ends. Utilizing this perspective fosters appreciation of
Ance”s, and Dilah’s, actions.
Ance’ and Dilah were both cognizant of the pressures placed on them to become
heterosexual wives and mothers. Yet in developing their subject positions both
individuals showed levels of agency. For example, while Ance’ did not necessarily
resist the heteronormative system, in Parker’s (2005b: 65) sense where resistance
is reserved for intended, direct, radical or revolutionary practice, s/he did employ
agency in negotiating a position that enabled hir to have children and continue masculine pursuits. Such creative actions were influenced in part by wider transnational discourses that provided ideas and motivations to rework dominant gender
models. Yet the power of gender norms meant that while in some respects Ance’
and Dilah defied expectations, in other respects they merely reversed normative
ideals and in a sense reinforced gender binaries. Indeed the various social pressures
placed on calalai encourage calalai to profile their subject positions on masculinity,
a topic to which this chapter now turns.

Calalai subject positions 125

Engaging masculinity
For many calalai the most available and compelling model of gender is that of masculinity. As Blackwood (1999) shows for Indonesia, females who do not fit the normative model of gender, or find it limiting and oppressive, may become persuaded
of their masculinity, a fact that produces gender transgression. Moreover, masculine females may be labelled calalai because there are no models of being a different kind of woman, of being a masculine woman.
Ance’ married Wawal in part because such a relationship enabled hir to pursue
masculine tasks. As such, Ance’ had very clear ideas of what s/he expected in hir
relationship; s/he was the husband, Wawal was the wife. Problems arose, however,
when the borders blurred:
We got married because two males, or two females, can’t have children. At the
start, Wawal did all the cooking and cleaning because s/he’s calabai and s/he
knew all about that kind of stuff. I’m calalai and I hate doing all that housework
stuff, that’s why I’m calalai because I want to live like a man. At first it was
good. But then Wawal got lazy. In the end s/he expected me to be the husband
and the wife! But I have my daughter . . . Wawal loved women’s clothes, and
elaborate materials and buttons and lace. That was one of the things that really
annoyed me, actually. Wawal spent so much money on clothes and make-up. I
would work all day . . . then I was a farmer . . . and Wawal would just spend all
the money. At this time, I guess our relationship started getting awkward.
Wawal wanted me to be a mother and do all the housework, bathe the baby,
clean and dust and make money. So I told hir that ‘if you forbid me to work like
a man, then you’ll have to work and get the money so I can stay home with our
daughter. How am I supposed to do two roles when you don’t keep the house
or work for money?’
(Ance’)
As long as Wawal conformed to the expectations of being a wife Ance’ saw the
relationship positively. When Wawal stopped performing hir role as wife, however, Ance”s view of the relationship soured. When I lasted visited Ance”s hometown in South Sulawesi in 2007, Ance’ and Wawal were divorced.
Ance”s frustration at carrying out feminine tasks in part stems from expectations
that calalai enact masculine behaviours and discard feminine ones. For instance,
Ance’ revealed above that initially Wawal did all the cooking and cleaning. For
Ance’ cooking is something a woman does, not something that a man or a calalai
would willingly do (cf. Blackwood, 1999: 185–6). Interestingly, though, another
calalai named Rani frequently helps with cooking at weddings so it is not always a
clear divide between feminine roles and roles undertaken by calalai. Nevertheless,
calalai tend to avow masculine ideals, as Maman’s story below further suggests.
I was told on a number of occasions of a calalai who lived in a village about an
hour north of Sengkang. Arriving there by bus one day, I hesitantly asked a number
of people if they knew of any females who were like men. A couple of people
offered to take me to Maman’s house, saying that s/he was female and was just like

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a man. After about a five-minute walk my companions indicated that we had
arrived at Maman’s house and encouraged me to climb the house ladder. It seemed,
not for the first time, a very intrusive process to just wander into someone’s house
and say, ‘Hi, I am a researcher from Australia and I was wondering if I could talk to
you about gender?’ I timidly climbed up. At the top I was greeted by an elderly man
who introduced himself as Maman’s father – word that I wanted to meet Maman
had obviously beaten me there. Maman was out in the fields harvesting rice, he told
me, but he would gladly take me out to find hir if I wanted, or I could come in and
have tea and biscuits and wait for hir to return. Thinking of the heat of the afternoon
and the fact that no one was very clear where Maman actually was, I had visions of
Maman’s father ushering me around various rice fields in a vain search for hir.
What would I even say when we found Maman in the middle of a field? A cup of tea
sounded particularly inviting.
Maman lives with hir father, that is, when s/he is home. S/he travels a great deal
and, as hir father proudly boasts, is very successful at initiating business ventures in
various places. Their house, however, belied any wealth Maman had accumulated.
As I sat down on a stiff couch in the cramped, hot sitting room I noticed a number
of photos of who I took to be Maman. Maman presented a masculine image. In one
photo s/he had slicked-back hair and was wearing dark mirror sunglasses, denim
jeans and a jacket. In another photo, Maman was surrounded by individuals I took
to be men. In another, there was a pretty woman wearing a red dress with her arm
slung casually over Maman’s shoulder. Maman’s father noticed me staring at the
photos:
Yep, that’s Maman. Here s/he is in Java. S/he goes there and makes lots of
money. And this is Maman in Bali. S/he’s really brave (berani, an adjective
usually reserved for men) and travels all over.
(Maman’s father)
He passed me another photo, it was of Maman holding a lit cigarette, straddling a
motorcycle, hand on chin, elbow on knee. Hir father continued talking about
Maman:
S/he was always like this. S/he’s female, not that you would know that. Ever
since I can remember s/he was like a son. And I think we just treated hir like
that. Hir mother wasn’t here for long . . . Maman would always help me. We
used to work together, but I’m too old now, I have to get looked after!
(Maman’s father)
I could see a lot of people milling outside and a woman making her way up the rickety stairs. She looked like the woman in the red dress in the photo. As she came in
Maman’s father introduced hir as Mina, Maman’s ex-girlfriend. We shook hands. I
was struck by the fact that Mina and Maman were once partners (pacaran) and that
this was openly acknowledged. We soon moved out onto the veranda; as the formalities were over I did not need to be entertained in the sitting room any more. A

Calalai subject positions 127
breeze cooled us and the atmosphere relaxed, helped by the arrival of tea and biscuits. Maman’s father sat off to the side and Mina and I, surrounded now by a bunch
of other people, including the two men who had escorted me there, started chatting.
I talked a little about my research saying that I was interested in Bugis culture and
men, women, calalai and calabai. I then asked Mina about Maman:
S/he’s a blacksmith. I can take you downstairs and show you all the men hitting
iron to make badi’ (small knives). Maman also makes bangkung (B), which are
long blades used for cutting down trees. Maman has them in the house, and bellows for the kiln. Maman used to work with hir father when he was younger.
But now he’s too old. To make a small blade takes about 15 minutes. They’re
sold for about Rp7,500 (US$0.75). When s/he’s made enough blades, s/he
goes to Palopo [a town about one hour away] to sell them. It’s really hot work,
you know, they have to sit in front of a fire and hit the iron into shape and then
sharpen it. Ugh! I could never do that. I work in the rice fields and that’s hard,
but not this hard! Maman is in essence just like a man (pokoknya seperti lelaki).
S/he’s very strong and works really hard and has lots of money. And s/he’s so
funny. Maman makes me laugh all the time, and s/he tells the best stories.
Maman is a great story teller. S/he is very skilled at playing takraw (a type of
ball game) and was the district champion. I guess I started to fall for Maman
because s/he always bought me presents like earrings and face powder. S/he
was my friend. S/he was raped once, you know. S/he ran away into the forest
to have the baby. S/he came back and found another girlfriend. Now Maman
has lots of girlfriends, and s/he buys them all lots of face powder and other
stuff.
(Mina)
Mina related this story in front of all the people on the veranda and there was no
apparent sense of discomfort or embarrassment. In the initial description Mina presented Maman as hard working and pursuing an occupation that symbolizes masculinity. I detected a hint of regret, however, in Mina’s last comment. After a
number of years of being together, Mina’s marriage to a man was arranged and she
had to break off her relationship with Maman. In Thailand, too, the gender normative partner is often expected to eventually lead a ‘normal’ life by marrying heterosexually (Sinnott, 2004: 101, 2007: 131; cf. Webster, 2008).
When they were together Maman and Mina’s relationship was structured around
conceivable gender possibilities. In Indonesia, dominant gender ideologies convince individuals of the need for the masculine/feminine dichotomy, or rather the
impossibility of an alternative. As Kondo (1997: 7), following Butler (1993), notes,
‘Performative citations are thus never merely the voluntary choices of a humanist
subject; rather, they are the product of constitutive constraints that create identities,
creative performances elicited under duress.’ As a result, Maman embodied
masculinity while Mina embodied femininity. Sinnott (2007: 125) likewise found
for Thailand that the relational and binary gender pairing of masculine tom and
feminine dee shows that gendered subjectivity is defined against an oppositional or

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negative quality. This gender pairing does not mean, however, that there can be
only two genders (Sinnott, 2007: 125).
Maman and Mina additionally needed each other to conform to particular gender
models so that their respective gender enactments could be publicly recognized. As
Strathern notes:
The extent to which agents act for themselves or themselves cause others to act
depends on what these selves are . . . Another person may be the cause of
action, not as one mind overriding another’s, but in terms of the requirement of
a relationship in which the presence of one party is necessary to and created by
the other, and the necessity is construed as a matter of difference between
them.
(1987: 294–5)
One way in which Maman was both able to reinforce hir masculinity and make hir
gendered enactments intelligible was through relationships with women who epitomized ideal femininity. Mina presented herself as a feminine woman. While casually she wears a sarong and a t-shirt, she often dresses in skirts and high-heel shoes,
paints her nails and wears make-up. Her posture and gait are also considered highly
feminine, attributes that affirmed Maman’s masculinity.
A further way in which calalai, like Maman, assert masculinity is though romantic relationships. Within intimate partnerships there is pressure on individuals, at
least officially if not always in practice, to conform to a binary masculine/feminine
model. As Saskia Wieringa (1999: 208–9) found out in Jakarta, ‘If I wanted to go
out with them, I had to behave in ways that they felt conformed to my role, that is I
had to learn to be butch. The butches tried to teach me to be one of them and the
femmes made clear what they expected from me in the way of chivalry and lovemaking.’ In this respect, Wieringa was required to perform a particular role.
Similarly, Mina’s narrative shows that she cherished Maman’s chivalry, an attribute calalai are expected to embody.
The pressure for female-born individuals in South Sulawesi to conform to
feminine ideals is constantly reiterated. As a result, calalai subject positions exist
in continual friction with dominant gender norms. This tension shows that
gender is not an external structure forcibly imposed on individuals from the outside
but rather that an individual’s gender formation is an ongoing process of interpretation, appropriation and reconfiguration of cultural ideologies. As Eves (2004)
argues, identity formation is an ongoing process rather than a once and for all
imposition.
While calalai resist feminine expectations, their resistance is constrained within
imaginable parameters. Indeed Butler (2000) reveals that pure resistance to the
dominant cultural system is an illusion. Moreover, Abu-Lughod (1990) asserts that
resistance to one hegemonic system invites inclusion into another. In developing
particular subject positions calalai take on aspects of masculinity, as this section
has highlighted. Yet while calalai engage with masculinity, their subject positions
are not inauthentic, whimsical, or merely imitative (cf. Dasgupta, 2000; Eves,

Calalai subject positions 129
2004). Rather, calalai modify masculine ideals and communicate various gender
dynamics, as the next section shows.

Calalai gender dynamics
While the dominant model of gender in Indonesia is presented as binary in nature,
calalai often find additional avenues through which to develop particular gendered
subject positions. For instance, as a masculine female Maman does not have the
same restrictions or expectations placed on hir as either a man or a woman necessarily would. As such, Maman is able to actively court hir partners and bestow them
with gifts, indicating hir capacity to earn a good income. While earning a good
income is a desirable masculine quality, Acciaioli (pers. comm. 2004) points out
that Bugis men would generally not be able to bestow gifts on a woman without the
latter’s parents forcing the issue of marriage.
Maman is also able to explore spaces and perform tasks that a man may not be
able to undertake. For example, Maman embodies bravery, as hir ex-girlfriend,
Mina, reveals:
It was great having a calalai partner because s/he could go out at night alone.
So if my mother was sick, Maman could go and buy medicine and s/he could
bring it into the house, even when my dad wasn’t home.
(Mina)
Mina suggests that Maman was brave enough to go out alone at night and that s/he
could do so without incurring sanctions that would be applied to a woman. Bravery
is a quality often attributed to calalai. For instance, Idrus (2003) notes that calalai
are considered valiant because they frequently protect women from sexual harassment, something Lai (2007: 170) similarly found among tomboys in Hong Kong
who were expected to defend and take care of their girlfriends.
Mina also enjoyed the care and protection Maman extended towards her in
respect to fetching medicine. Writing of Thailand, Sinnott (2007: 127) likewise
reveals that masculine toms feel it is their obligation to protect and serve their
femme dee partners. While this caretaking is positioned as a masculine trait, it is
also expressed in terms of putting a dee’s emotional and sexual needs before their
own needs, which is not a masculine norm. Tom performances of masculinity in
Thailand, like calalai performances of masculinity in Bugis South Sulawesi, can
represent female empowerment in patriarchal places (Sinnott, 2004: 134; see also
Webster, 2008, for similar discussions in Java).
Mina additionally boasted above that unlike a man, Maman was able to bring
medicine into the house without causing shame (siri’). In the 1940s, contact
between a man and an unmarried Bugis woman resulted in such a feeling of siri’
that the woman’s father and brothers may have been expected to kill the woman and
the man or else lose their own honour (Millar, 1983: 484). While repercussions
have certainly eased, contact between unmarried women and men is still restricted,
as Chapter 5 showed. However, calalai and women can often easily associate.

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Indeed the sense of relative freedom of movement calalai experience spills over
into intimate relationships, which are not as guarded between calalai and women as
they are between men and women. As Dilah reveals:
We’re much freer (lebih bebas), you know. If I have a girlfriend, we can go
everywhere together, and it is ok. But if I were a man, well, we would have to
get married first!
(Dilah)
Intimate female relationships in Thailand are also perceived as less potentially dangerous than heterosexual ones and hence females are given greater scope for finding private time alone (Sinnott, 2004: 112).
As mentioned above Mina’s marriage to a man was eventually arranged and
Mina was therefore forced to end hir relationship with Maman. Mina notes that
Maman became particularly distraught at this turn of events:
You know what Maman did then? S/he stood under my house and screamed
and screamed. But what could I do? I was arranged to be married (dijodohkan).
(Mina)
Mina continued by noting that if a man had undertaken this course of action he
would have caused his entire family to feel siri’. As Maman was calalai, and in
many respects was not expected to conform to normative masculine behaviour, s/he
avoided negative sanctions being levelled against hir. Rather, as a female,
Maman’s passionate outburst confirmed for many that females are naturally less
able to control their emotions than men, a perception explored in Chapter 5.
Calalai are seen as exempt from other normative prescriptions of behaviour too.
For example, calalai often have access to social spaces that neither women nor men
can so easily take advantage of:
Today Mariani, Rani and I went to a wedding. The three of us are so free to
move. Mariani (bissu) and Rani (calalai) can move in women’s spaces and into
men’s places because they are neither and yet both. Similarly, I have the position of foreign researcher that allows access to the men’s area, and I am a
woman, which allows access to the women’s area. Rani sat with the women in
the kitchen for a while and cooked talibo (B, a type of seafood). Afterwards
s/he moved to the front of the house and socialized with the men. Women and
men are not able to do this travelling between spaces so easily.
(Field notes, 2000)
Men and women are not strictly segregated in Indonesian society. However, there
are certain tacit agreements about where it is appropriate to go in respect to gender
considerations. For example, men tend not to enter the kitchen of homes they are
visiting, nor do they generally participate in the cooking of food at home (Pelras,
1996: 161). Moreover, a solitary woman is seldom found conversing with a group

Calalai subject positions 131
of men at the front of the house. Rani’s movements reveal that the expectations
placed on women and men are not attached so stringently to calalai.
The realm of sexual relations provides further scope for calalai to rework masculinity. There is a perception among many people that calalai and their partners
mirror heterosexual sexual behaviour. As such, many believe that calalai must perform the primary role of insertive partner, as Puang Bachri, a middle-aged man,
reveals:
Puang Bachri:
Sharyn:
Puang Bachri:

Do you know how calalai have sex [with women]?
How?
Well, calalai use a special tool (alat) for having sex. Nowadays,
they use a condom filled with stuff, but a long time ago, they
would use the lining of an animal’s stomach and stuff it. It was
called loloni (B). Sometimes they would make it long enough so
they could both use it at the same time.

I heard many similar narratives stressing the importance of calalai using dildos, the
latter being referred to variously as laso gatta (B, rubber penis), to’ol to’olan, dildo,
or vibrator. Pelras (1996: 167) also notes that calalai ‘are said to perform sex with
the aid of dildos made from animal guts filled with wax.’ I did not hear any verbs
specifically for female-female sex, though.
That calalai do not have the anatomical ‘tools’ to have penetrative sex was a
point of concern for many people. In the following narrative, Yulia, a 33-year-old
calabai, uses the fact that calalai lack a penis to undermine calalai status:
Yulia:
It’s a sin for a calalai and a woman to sleep together.
Sharyn: What makes you think that? You’ve told me before that you don’t think
it’s a sin for calabai to sleep with men.
Yulia:
It’s a sin because it’s written in religion. There’s a religious base. But not
only that, what about sex? How can calalai have sex? They don’t have
the alat. Calabai can have sex because there’s an alat, but what does a
calalai do?
Kendall correspondingly found in Lestho that people commonly thought, ‘It’s
impossible for two women to share the blankets . . . You can’t have sex unless somebody has a koai (penis)’ (‘M’e Mpho, cited in Kendall, 1999: 162). Reddy (2005:
52) also notes that in India hijra cannot imagine how lesbians have sex.
Calalai themselves do not necessarily feel the need to emulate ideals of masculinity when it comes to sexual relations. For Dilah, love and affection are far
more important than penetrative sex. During one conversation with Dilah a woman
walked past us, prompting Dilah to comment:
Dilah:
Cute, hey (Manis kan)?
Sharyn: Yeah, she’s cute.
Dilah:
My ex-girlfriend looks like her.

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Sharyn: Wow! You were lucky. When were you going out?
Dilah:
Well, her name was Indah. When I met her she was already married . . .
She already had a child. She was already ill (sakit, e.g. had sexual feelings for women) before she got married, but she was forced to marry anyway. Her husband knew she was ill. Before I met Indah, well, I would
fantasize about gorgeous, sexy women (cewek yang bahenol), just like a
man. But when I met Indah, well she was it. We lived together for quite a
while . . .
Sharyn: And what about, you know, sleeping together and stuff?
Dilah:
Um . . . I guess we had sex about three times a week. We used a vibrator
sometimes. Both hunter and lines are penetrated, but it depends on the
people and the mood. Sometimes we took it in turns, sometimes together.
Well it depended, if we planned to have sex, then maybe we used a vibrator, if it just happened, then we didn’t use any tool at all. But I guess like
any couple it differed . . . sometimes we had sex lots, sometimes not. It
depended on what was happening and how we felt. But you know, hunter
don’t really focus on sex. Giving love and affection (kasih sayang) are
much more important; giving, sharing, loving each other and giving
affection, these are the things that are important in a relationship.
Dilah did not feel the need to assert an overtly masculine persona. Rather, s/he notes
that in sexual activities both s/he and hir partner may be penetrated. Moreover, what
is more important for Dilah than sex is a loving and caring relationship.
Kennedy and Davis (1993) suggest that the culturally intelligible way of signalling desire for women is through the adoption of the male role. However this role
should not be confused with identification as men because female same-sex relationships have very different connections to dominant power structures, something
Rubin (1992) argues for butch masculinity among American women. Moreover,
Eves (2001) suggests that it is possible to position butch masculinity as an
improved form of male masculinity where the latter’s strengths are combined with
sensitivity and feminine characteristics, yet sexism and misogyny are left out. In
many respects, Dilah’s emphasis on kasih sayang is presented by hirself and hir
lovers as an enhanced type of masculinity.
Another way in which calalai recraft masculinity is through their relationships
with lines. Dilah notes that, ‘A lines is a woman who feels like a woman, but she
doesn’t like men; she likes females (cewek) who have the style of men.’ For many
people, lines actually confront gender ideals more subversively than calalai. Lines
flaunt femininity and yet rebel against prescriptions usually applied to women. For
instance, lines demand freedom to travel around on their own and to dress in what
is often perceived as a sexually provocative manner. Many lines marry men and
have children while continuing to find sexual and emotional fulfilment with calalai.
Similarly in Thailand, dees rather than toms are considered to constitute the more
disruptive category in the Thai sex/gender order (Sinnott, 2007: 133). On the one
hand dees are seen to conform to hegemonic notions of proper femininity but on the
other hand are understood to enjoy sex, to demand satisfying sex and to change

Calalai subject positions 133
partners frequently, behaviours that are not isomorphic with hegemonic feminine
sexuality and gender identity (Sinnott, 2004: 138). Indeed as Nestle (1992) asserts,
the femme role is threatening to heterosexuality because it uses the signs of conventional femininity to signal desire for other women, upsetting the normal functioning of femininity.
In some ways lines destabilize calalai assertions of masculinity. For instance,
Dilah remarks that, ‘Lines are by far the most aggressive partners, they’re always
the first to ask for sex.’ This goes against the gender norm that men are sexually
assertive and women are sexually receptive. In South Sulawesi there is a perception, though, of Bugis women being sexually aggressive (Kennedy, 1953). Indeed
Idrus (2003) notes that Bugis women are considered to have nine desires while men
have only one, yet women are expected to express their desires covertly. Lines,
however, do not convey their desires covertly, thus contravening gender norms.
In developing gendered positions that draw on ideals of masculinity but that also
rework such ideals, calalai find particular ways of indicating their subjecthood.
One way of doing this is through bodily adornments:
I love men’s clothes. Men’s clothes allow you to move; I always tie my sarong
like a man because it’s stronger and doesn’t come undone when I am moving
around. As for me, I am far too lazy to put on make-up or women’s clothes. My
hair used to be really short, like a man’s, but now I can’t be bothered cutting it.
Even when I was still at school I never wore skirts. And that was hard because
I was at an Islamic school where all the girls have to wear really long skirts. But
I hated skirts and so I wore trousers. And this was ok except for when I tried to
go and sit for an exam and the officials wouldn’t let me enter. They told me I
had to go home and change into a skirt. I didn’t want to do this so I went and
saw the Principal. So the Principal told the officials that it was alright because
I always wore trousers!
(Ance’)
Ance’ signals selfhood in part through clothing, although rather than specifically
dress to indicate calalai gender, more pragmatic motivations are given above, such
as the comfort of men’s garments. For Dilah, though, there are explicit ways calalai
must present themselves:
You can tell a hunter (calalai) by hir style (gaya). Hir hair has to be short, s/he
can’t wear make-up and definitely no lipstick! And s/he must wear men’s
clothes.
(Dilah)
While many of the signifiers of being calalai draw on masculine forms, calalai do
not dress to be exactly like men; many dress to specifically assert a calalai subject
position, as Dilah further reveals:
Having watched the sunset over Losari Beach, Idham and I were walking home
when we ran into Eri. S/he invited us to hang out at hir house (ayo, main-main

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Calalai subject positions
di rumah). Dilah, and another calalai, Cappa’, were there. We sat out the front
of the house and chatted. Dilah commented on my earrings and asked if I
always wore two. Dilah said that s/he only wears one in hir right ear because if
s/he wore two then that would mean s/he was a real girl (cewek benar). I asked
why s/he didn’t wear it in hir left ear and s/he said because s/he wasn’t a man.
(Field notes, 2000)

While Dilah noted earlier that calalai must have short hair and wear men’s clothing,
s/he did not suggest that calalai should mirror men. Rather, a strategically placed
earring is a means of indicating for Dilah a calalai identity. Eves (2004: 494), writing of butch-femme identities in the UK, also notes how the women she interviewed went into detail with regard to the physical signifiers of lesbian genders,
including short hair, types of jewellery, physical stance and walk, and eye-contact.
Particular styles, movements, preferences and desires thus become embodied
through bodily comportment, clothing, roles, behaviours and occupations. Yet, as
Eves (2004) argues, this embodiment is not necessarily performative in a conscious
dramaturgical sense. Rather, deployment of performativity theory reveals ways in
which calalai reworkings of masculinity are not merely mimetic of masculinity and
indeed help constitute calalai subjectivity.
In many accounts, performativity theory has been criticized for implying that
identities are unstable, shifting and are a kind of theatrical performance whereby
individuals may wake up and consciously choose a gender. While always performative, Butler (1993: x) concedes that choosing one’s gender is not as straightforward as donning a coat for the day. Indeed, Butler rejects the above criticisms as a
misinterpretation of her work, arguing instead that gender identity is not unstable
nor malleable, but that the performativity of gender brings into being gender identity, thus mitigating the notion of individuals adopting false consciousness or
merely playing a role. For Butler, it is precisely the ritualized repetition of culturally gendered acts that incites gender identity. As noted in Chapter 2, Butler’s use
of performativity to examine gender identity facilitates analysis of dominant ideologies and reveals ways individuals emulate, modify and resist these prescriptions
in daily life.
To make performativity theory more robust the work of other scholars can also
be incorporated. Bourdieu’s material on embodiment is valuable in encouraging
focus on the active processes and strategies of everyday practices (see Eves, 2004).
For instance, the concepts of hexis and habitus allow examination of the ways in
which norms are taken on and lived through in an active process, which while structured is not necessarily determined (Eves, 2004). In this way, performativity is seen
as more generative (McNay, 2000).
Performativity theory allows appreciation of the ways in which calalai emulate
ideals of masculinity without suggesting that this adoption renders such identities
mere replicas of an original. Moreover, performativity theory enables understanding of the dynamic recreations of masculinity that calalai undertake within a structured environment as well as the ways that performances of these recreations brings
calalai subject positions into being.

Calalai subject positions 135
In thinking of calalai subject positions, ways in which masculine models are both
adopted and adapted need to be appreciated. Indeed, calalai may present feminine
images of being caring, protecting, and highly emotional while also drawing on
masculine virtues of bravery. In this respect, calalai are not necessarily denying
gender norms as much as reworking them in particular ways. As Sinnott (2004:
140) shows for Thailand, sexual and gender practices do not need to be exterior or
rigidly opposed to dominant norms in order to be subversive. Challenge and change
to the gender system can come from social activities within normative meanings. In
constituting and presenting gendered selves calalai draw on feminine norms,
refashion ideals of masculinity, and additionally play with gender dynamics to create calalai spaces.

Social interaction
Calalai subject positions are officially discouraged and calalai face varying degrees
of harassment and prejudice. Moreover, same-sex sexual desire is commonly perceived as a type of illness. In Dilah’s experience, though, there is general tolerance
for hir subject position within South Sulawesi:
We don’t get hassled because of being us. Sometimes we get comments like
‘Who are you?’ or ‘Why are you so rough (kasar)?’ But I’ve never been
attacked or threatened or really teased.
(Dilah)
While as we saw in the first section there is a lot of criticism of calalai, such negative views are generally expressed towards a faceless category, rather than particular individuals. As Dilah’s account suggests above, within familiar settings
tolerance is generally extended to calalai. Yet as Jackson (1999) posits, tolerance is
not the same thing as acceptance (cf. Heriot-Darragh, 2007).
Alongside levels of tolerance come sentiments of shock and sympathy. As titles
are particularly important in Indonesian conversation, one of the first questions I
asked Eri, a calalai in hir early twenties who works in a beauty salon, was how I
should address hir. Eri replied:
For me it’s not really important. I like to be called by my name; you don’t need
to put Mbak (Miss) or Mas (Mr) in front of it. Often I get called Mas though! Like
one time, this woman came into the salon and I did her hair. She kept calling me
Mas. Then at the end, when I was massaging her arms, she grabbed my hand
and cried, ‘Wow! Your hands are so soft. Oh my God, you’re a girl (cewek)!’
(Eri)
The woman’s reaction was not one of animosity. There was however a later
suggestion of pity extended towards Eri. In the woman’s view Eri would never
find happiness because happiness is gained through heterosexual marriage and
children, and by conforming to gender norms.

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Aside from the level of general tolerance extended towards calalai, there is little
active encouragement or support for calalai. One base where some calalai do find
support, though, is within calabai circles. Boellstorff (2001) writes about how a
number of support organizations have been established and continue to operate
with the joint cooperation of waria (transgender males), gay, and lesbi individuals.
Pelras (1996: 167), conversely, has noted that calalai and calabai do not get along
particularly well, suggesting that amity varies depending on time and place.
The following narratives illustrate a supportive relationship between calalai and
calabai:
Well, if there’s a Festival Waria [dancing and beauty festival for waria] then
there’s bound to be calalai. And you know we get along. Look at the beauty
salon. There’s waria and hunter working together everyday peacefully.
(Dilah)
Calalai and calabai get along well together . . . they give support to each other.
(Andi Lutfi, 28-year-old man)
Attendance at a local nightclub further reveals the camaraderie that can develop
between calalai and calabai:
Arriving at [a night club called] M-Club last night, Dilah called my name over
the loud speaker because s/he was up on the stage and could see me wandering
around trying to find hir. When I went over I was greeted by a number of other
calalai, lines, and calabai all dancing to DJ Eri’s choice of music. I met for the
first time a calabai called Fari who was dressed in a mini-skirt with a shaved
head and silicone newly pumped into hir nose – Fari was very proud of the
bruise that this had made. When the first competition was announced – ‘Who
has the most gorgeous partner?’ – it was Dilah who vigorously encouraged,
actually pushed, Fari to run to the other end of the stage with a photo of hir
[Fari’s] boyfriend. He was particularly handsome but, alas, didn’t win.
Everyone was very consoling when Fari returned.
(Field notes, 2000)
These short narratives suggest that while the social experiences of calalai and
calabai differ greatly, as comparison with the next chapter shows, in many
instances there is a shared solidarity (cf. Beazley, 2003: 25; Boellstorff, 2007a).
Throughout Indonesia a great deal of pressure is exerted on females to conform
to feminine ideals. Females who do not match these ideals tend not to receive the
advantages of being a man (e.g. many calalai find it difficult to secure suitable wellpaid employment), nor do most calalai receive the honour and respect awarded
upon motherhood. As Boellstorff (2004a) notes, while there is a lack of violence
against transgendered individuals in Indonesia, we should not automatically
assume that this means there is widespread support for gender/sexuality diversity.
Yet many calalai do experience varying levels of tolerance, support, and even
acceptance, within respective communities. We see here the difference between

Calalai subject positions 137
orthodox and official views, which tend to consider calalai disapprovingly, and
practical day-to-day opinions that regard calalai more favourably. Oetomo (1996:
262) similarly reveals that while waria in Indonesia are teased, within an individual’s own village such reactions are limited. This dialectic is akin to what Strathern
(1981: 166) found in Hagen society where there was an implicit contrast between
men’s statements of categorical denigration of females and their contextual evaluation of particular women (cf. Bell, 1993). Therefore, as Jackson (1999: 240) notes,
we can neither focus solely on the negative attitudes expressed within official
teachings and derogatory comments and actions made by individuals, nor on the
positive attitudes expressed in the practical, everyday tolerance shown towards
individuals who do not conform to ideals. Rather, the interplay of various attitudes
results in dynamic calalai experiences.
* * * *
Calalai face ongoing societal and familial pressure to follow feminine ideals, such
as to marry heterosexually and have children. Despite these pressures, calalai do
manage to find room for self-expression. Calalai rework aspects of masculinity and
draw on the fact that they are female-bodied to enable particular behaviours to
be performed, and to provide avenues for establishing and maintaining intimate
same-sex relationships. Although on a day-to-day level calalai tend not to face
overt harassment, they continue to feel strong pressure to follow normative gender
expectations. While calalai share many similar experiences with calabai, female
gender transgressors undergo substantially more surveillance, restriction, and
prejudice than male gender transgressors, as comparison with the next chapter
shows.

7

Calabai subject positions

It’s evening, just before the Islamic magrib prayer, and I am sitting in the local
meeting hall (baruga, B) watching children practise for an upcoming festival.
It’s an adat festival and it will include Bugis songs and dances and Islamic
recitations. A flute (suling) is playing and its sound is mesmerizing. Someone is
also playing a small guitar (kecapi, B) and someone else a drum (gendang).
Fatilah just took a break from teaching and came and sat with me. Fatilah is
around 30, I guess, and s/he’s considered an expert on dance and festival performances. Hir break wasn’t long because the festival is in two nights’ time, but
it was long enough for a quick chat. We started talking about women, men and
calabai and I commented that in many ways calabai are just like women (persis
wanita). ‘Take you, for instance, Fatilah,’ I declared, ‘you’re just like a woman.
You’re wearing a skirt, a blouse, and your hair is tied up in a bun. You’re wearing face powder and lipstick. Your voice is very feminine and you move in a
very feminine way. What I’m wondering is why calabai don’t attempt to be
exactly like women? I mean, women don’t hang around (bergaul) with men like
you do. But you socialize in men’s areas all the time. I mean, if calabai are, well,
women, you know, then don’t they have to act exactly like women?’
(Field notes, 1999)
When I recorded the above, I was just beginning field work. While I had spent quite
a bit of time with Fatilah, at that early stage I assumed calabai felt themselves to be
women trapped in men’s bodies. I therefore thought that calabai wanted to be/come
women in spite of being biologically male. Such thinking made terms like transgender and transsexual, which usually imply a diachronic movement from man to
woman, and male to female, or vice versa, applicable. What I queried, then, was not
Fatilah’s supposed transition from one gender to another, but why s/he would jeopardize this transition, and hir ability to pass as a woman, by doing things women did
not do. Fatilah replied:
Why on earth would I want to hang around with just women? If I hang around
with men then I might be completely surrounded by gorgeous men!
Fatilah wanted to associate with men regardless of whether or not this was
appropriate behaviour for a woman. As such, Fatilah was not worried about whether

Calabai subject positions 139
people received hir as a woman. S/he was not attempting to pass as a woman, nor
wanting to be accepted as a woman, because s/he did not see hirself as a woman. This
is not to say, however, that some calabai do not feel themselves to be women, or want
to be/come women. Rather, for Fatilah the issue was about being able to perform a
type of femininity and still associate closely with men. Fatilah’s response encourages thinking about ways of being that do not necessarily equate calabai with transvestite, transgender, or transsexual identities, but as subject positions in their own
terms. Suggesting that calabai constitute a distinctive subject position implies calabai be considered as a third gender, critiques of which I analysed in Chapter 3.
While not positing here that calabai be reified as a third gender category, this chapter explores ways in which calalai incorporate, refashion, refute and expand available models of gender in presenting particular gendered selves.
This chapter is divided into three sections. The first section examines ways in
which calabai explore feminine spaces, including emulating perceived dominant
notions of womanhood, physically replicating femaleness and pursuing specific
forms of romantic relationship. The second section looks at calabai contestations of
normative femininity and masculinity, and ways in which calabai queer notions of
heteronormativity. While individuals show agency in this process, such endeavours often relegate calabai to peripheral spaces within society. The final section
reveals a variety of opinions of calabai. While official discourses often oppose subjects seen to defy established gender ideals, in quotidian engagements calabai generally feel tolerated, if not always accepted, within Bugis society.

Exploring feminine spaces
As Chapter 5 showed, there are clear official notions of what being a man means in
Indonesia. For some male-born individuals, though, these ideals do not sit comfortably with their sense of self for reasons outlined primarily in Chapter 2. As
socialization towards masculine ideals starts from a young age it is often early on
that a boy senses incongruence between himself and available models of masculinity. Family and friends may also notice this discord. For instance, one of my closest
informants, a calabai named Yulia, often entertains friends and neighbours at hir
house. One day a group of us were sitting around drinking thick Torajan coffee
when Yulia’s four-year-old neighbour came over and started playing in front of us.
His ear was pierced with what looked like a thumb-tack and his behaviour was considered by his audience to be very effeminate. He was dancing around squealing
and playing with a group of girls who had earlier come to Yulia’s. The woman sitting next to me soon commented, ‘That one’s definitely a calabai candidate (calon
calabai).’ In sensing that ideal notions of masculinity are not compatible with their
sense of self, or being told of this incompatibility by others, some male-born individuals thus search for alternative models on which to base their subject positions.
In many ways the most compelling model for such individuals to follow is that of
femininity, however variously interpreted.
Eka was 25 years old when I first met hir in 1999 and s/he had just set up a hair
salon in the front of hir parent’s house. When I last saw hir in 2007, hir family had

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Calabai subject positions

demolished their original home and built a large three-storey house, the top floor of
which is now Eka’s salon. When business gets hectic, around wedding times especially, Eka hires other calabai to help hir with hair, make-up and costume assemblage. In 1999, Eka had long, thick dark hair. The last time I saw hir, though, s/he
had cut hir hair to just above shoulder length and hir hair on top was thinning. We
went to a number of formal occasions together on my last visit, mostly weddings,
and each time Eka wore a wig to ensure presentation of lustrous hair, a highly desirable feminine feature. To many observers, Eka embodies other ideals of femininity
too. As one person recounted: ‘Eka applies make-up, carefully shapes hir eyebrows, s/he often wears skirts, stockings and high-heel shoes, s/he speaks softly,
and walks in a swaying kind of way.’ According to this observer, in undertaking
these actions Eka presents a feminine self – this observer left out that though that
when angry Eka often shouts and swears, and s/he often loafs around the house in
jeans and a t-shirt with very little make-up on.
It is not just Eka’s public presentation that suggests femininity; Eka also talks
about feeling in part like a woman:
I went to Eka’s this morning to get a massage – Yulia said hir massages are the
best in Sengkang. When I arrived at hir salon s/he directed me into a small anteroom which had a mattress on the floor. Eka then signalled for me to remove
my clothes. I must have hesitated because s/he then said, ‘No men can enter
here so you don’t have to worry.’ I must have still looked shy because Eka
added, ‘Don’t be shy (jangan malu), we’re all women (wanita) here. We’re the
same in here [pointing to her heart]. The only difference is that we have some
different parts [pointing to hir genitals].
(Field notes, 1999)
While Eka feels like a woman inside, I did not hear hir articulate that s/he is a
woman trapped in a man’s body. While Eka may not have access to this discourse,
it is also possible that particular understandings of gender in South Sulawesi, which
were explored in Chapter 2, allow for a category of feminine male where Eka is not
directed to feel dissonance between hir body and hir sense of self. Yet while Eka
and other calabai do not necessarily articulate that they are women, or that they
want to become women, most calabai do wish to manipulate their body so that it
resembles desirable features of femininity. Indeed, a calabai named Yulia utilizes
various methods to make hir body more feminine.
Yulia is one of the most sought after wedding organizers in Sengkang. Hir skills
as a make-up artist and dress-maker are also highly respected. S/he is economically
savvy and has saved enough money to buy hir own simple yet comfortable house.
Built in typical Bugis style, it is on stilts and is divided into three sections: a sitting
room, bedroom and kitchen.
Yulia lives in a small hamlet five kilometres from the centre of Sengkang. The
community is a close one; if I ever dropped in on Yulia and s/he was not there, hir
neighbours generally knew where s/he was. Yulia’s aunt lives just a few houses
away and Yulia spends much of hir time there practising hir beautician skills on hir

Calabai subject positions 141
very patient nieces. Yulia has also travelled quite a bit in South Sulawesi and s/he
has been to Java, Kalimantan and Malaysia. On such excursions, Yulia has had the
opportunity to meet and socialize with other waria (an Indonesian term approximating the term calabai) and exchange experiences of selfhood. Yulia’s mobility is
therefore an important site for analysis (Manalansan, 2006) and as we see below
Yulia’s visit to Malaysia was pivotal is shaping hir desire to modify hir body. While
Yulia engages with broader influences, such as transnational images of femininity,
hir gendered performances are often very much located within a localized rural
context.
Yulia is a member of the noble class (bangsawan) and as such hir male name
begins with Andi, a Bugis title indicating noble descent. Hir high social status
means that Yulia is occasionally invited to dine with members of Sengkang’s royal
family. Yulia’s high position is also a reason why hir parents left Sengkang when
they found out s/he was calabai:
The shame (siri’) was really great for my parents when they found out I was
calabai because of my family’s high status. Gender norms are attached much
more strictly to members of the noble class than to other members of society.
So my family felt really ashamed and so they left Sengkang.
(Yulia)
In a society where kinship and status are of central concern (Idrus, 2003; Millar,
1989), Yulia’s identification as calabai was a cause of great distress for hir family.
In part the shame extended from the assumption that Yulia would have no offspring
to carry on the family’s status. However, same-sex intimate relationships do not
necessarily preclude future heterosexual marriage and children (cf. Boellstorff,
2000: 275), although this may change. For instance, Schimdt (2005) found that sexual relations with women are considered ‘appropriate’ for fa’afafine (transgender
males) in Samoa, but that such relations are not considered ‘appropriate’ for them
once they have migrated to New Zealand. As a result, a spectrum of the kinship
structure – that of fathering children, which was open to fa’afafine in Samoa –
becomes closed in New Zealand.
As mentioned earlier, Yulia desires to feminize hir body. When I first saw hir
after s/he returned from a trip to Malaysia, s/he was convinced more than ever of the
need to make hir body more feminine:
In Malaysia lots of waria are having operations. They’re getting breasts, and
some of them are huge! You know coconuts? Well they’re bigger than that,
Serli (Sharyn). My God (Iya Allah)! They’re massive! But it’s expensive,
Rp600,000 (US$60) for one! And they’re having injections in their nose. See
here [she points to a pin-size bruise at the top of her nose]? I’ve just had an
injection (disuntik) to make my nose more prominent (lebih mancung, a
prominent nose is considered attractive). I’ve had four injections here and two
in my chin to make it rounder . . . and in my lips. Lips are only Rp30,000
(US$3). I think you can even get that done in Sengkang. And some waria are

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Calabai subject positions
having operations. They’re getting their penis cut off (kontolnya dipotong) and
vaginas (fagina) made. I wouldn’t mind an operation like that, but it’s very
expensive. To have breast implants and a vagina made costs around Rp17 million (US$1,700). But I’m brave enough and I have the desire to do it . . . I just
have to find the cash (duit).
(Yulia)

Not many calabai express a desire to undergo such radical surgery (cf. Boellstorff,
2007a: 94–5). Certainly a prohibiting factor is the cost of the operation, a relatively
large sum considering that a public servant’s monthly base wage is around
Rp500,000 (US$50). In recognizing the prohibitive cost of a sex-change operation,
waria in Jakarta have set up their own arisan, a monthly social gathering where
members contribute to, and take turns at winning, an aggregate sum of money
through a lottery. For waria sex workers there is often a financial reward associated
with such operations. Yulia told me that after sex-reassignment surgery, waria sex
workers can make Rp250,000 (US$25) per night, whereas before the operation
they make about Rp50,000 (US$5). However, some people told me that it is
increasingly common for waria sex workers in urban areas to be requested to penetrate their clients thus mitigating the financial benefits of the operation, something
Kulick (1998) also found among travesti in Brazil. Another reason why radical surgery is not prioritized among most calabai I spoke to is because they do not necessarily see their genitalia as being at odds with their ideas of self, narratives Kulick
(1997) also heard in Brazil.
Nonetheless, most calabai do aim to feminize their physical body in some way.
Indeed, if calabai in more urban settings make no attempt at this, they are often
derided with snide remarks, such as, ‘Where’s ya tits (tete’ mu di mana loh)?’ Some
calabai take hormones to feminize their physical form, the most common of which
is the Pill. Tilly, a rather vivacious calabai in hir earlier 20s, who frequently sits
around plucking facial hair with a pair of tweezers attached to hir key-ring, notes
that s/he takes hormone tablets in order to, ‘make my breasts bigger, my voice
higher pitched, and to get a more feminine body.’ To enhance the effect, Tilly also
injects silicon into hir hips to make them rounder. Silicon is commonly injected into
other areas of the body as well, including the nose, cheeks, lips, breasts, hips and
bottom. Eka reveals:
There are calabai in Sengkang who get injections. Yayu is having injections in
hir breasts to make them bigger. One session costs Rp100,000 (US$10).
Apparently the injection can last for a long time (tahan lama), but if you want
it to last, it’s more expensive.
(Eka)
When I questioned Eka why calabai want to have injections and take hormone
tablets s/he replied:
So they look like women . . . look more beautiful. And more importantly, so
men will be interested (tertarik) . . . so men will find us attractive. You know,

Calabai subject positions 143
so it’s easier to find men. There’s a famous artist waria who has had an operation and now has a vagina (fagina). Her name is Dorcé and s/he lives in Jakarta.
(Eka)
Eka notes that many calabai aspire to look like women so it is easier to find men. An
underlying assumption in Eka’s above narratives is that men are primarily attracted
to ideals of feminine beauty that include a prominent nose, large breasts and curvy
hips. Eka also mentions Dorcé, who is probably the most famous waria in Indonesia
and provides a role model for many waria in terms of physical appearance (cf.
Boellstorff, 2007a: 228, fn. 27). However, it is not only the body that is manipulated
in attempts to achieve femininity. Calabai also dress in feminine clothing such as
skirts, and tie their sarong in the fashion of women (tucked in rather than rolled
down). Many calabai grow their hair long and wear make-up. Beauty, appearance,
glamour and style are all important in calabai constructions of identity, aspects
Johnson (1997) explores further in his work among transgender males in the
Philippines. Indeed, Parker (pers. comm. 2003) asserts that calabai preoccupation
with appearance is also part of being female in the general Indonesian social context. For instance, Eka wears a wig to give the appearance of long, thick hair when
s/he is going out, just as many women wear false hair buns when attending formal
functions.
Other ideals of Indonesian womanhood are also emulated by calabai. One of the
most noted aspects is the assumption by calabai of the role of wife in romantic relationships. The ideological basis of the Indonesian nation-state is the ‘family foundation’ (azas kekeluargaan) (Boellstorff, 1999: 491–7; Bourchier, 1996; Parker,
2003; Suryakusuma, 1996). Azas kekeluargaan favours the nuclear family, with
the man as husband, father and head of the family, and the woman as wife and
mother. Parker (2003) further comments that azas kekeluargaan ideology presumes
an automatic and in-built harmony of affective ties between members of the family
where each member is allocated a ‘natural’ place and a role to play. This ideology
dates back to colonial era nationalist thinkers in the 1920s–40s who expressly
devised azas kekeluargaan as a bulwark against Western individualism and materialism; Bourchier (1996) has debunked the idea that this was a uniquely indigenous
set of values by showing links with the Leiden Law School and the German
Romantic Movement.
In negotiating their way through state ideology and stating a position within society calabai often emulate the position of wife. As such, calabai occasionally unofficially marry their partners in a ceremony known as ‘marriage below the hand’
(kawin di bawah tangan) – this phrase is also used for polygamous marriages and
defacto relationships. A calabai named Yanti, who is now in hir late 40s, was unofficially married when s/he was younger:
I was married to a man, and I was his wife. He was a technician in a band. It was
a good match, you see, because I’m a singer, and together we would perform at
weddings, birthdays, Independence Day celebrations. I sing all sorts of music:
dangdut, jazz. This is where I met my husband. But we’re separated now. We

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Calabai subject positions
were no longer suitable (cocok). When we were married, I did all the cooking
and cleaning. We adopted a son from my elder sibling. He is in primary school
now. He calls me Mama. He was three months old when we adopted him.
There’s no problem if calabai want to adopt a baby.
(Yanti)

In emulating a heteronormative relationship, Yanti assumed the functions of a wife;
s/he cooked and cleaned and raised hir son. While s/he notes that there is no problem if calabai want to adopt a baby, not all calabai I spoke with agreed that this was
readily received by society. Yulia, too, entered into a relationship with a man
expecting to play the role of wife, as I recorded in my field notes in 2000:
Yulia has recently returned from Malaysia where s/he was living with a
Westerner (bule) s/he met in Jakarta. She has dyed her hair red, injected silicon
into her nose and chin, and looks, as she told me, just like a Western chick (persis cewek bule). She was full of news about this new man in her life:
Sharyn:
Yulia:

Sharyn:
Yulia:

Have you been out with a bule before?
Oh no, this is the first time. And it’s great! He’s such a kind-hearted
person. You know, when I came back here [to Sengkang] I looked
at all the men here and they’re all so ugly (jelek)! Steve wants me to
become Christian, but I said it doesn’t matter, as long as we respect
each other’s religion. Who knows what will happen in the future? If
I become a Christian, and then Steve leaves me, I can’t enter Islam
again.
So tell me about Steve!
Well, we met in Jakarta. I don’t even know which country he’s
from! What else? Well, he’s circumcised (disunat), he’s tall, he’s
thin, and he’s bald (botak)! He’s married with kids, but he doesn’t
live with his wife, he paid for her to go home. We worked out a contract, see . . . I’ve been contracted (dikontrak), you might say, for
five years whereby I get paid between 1–3 million rupiah per month
(US$100–300). And on top of this, Steve pays for my accommodation at a kos (type of boarding house), which is Rp1 million per
month (US$100). I don’t have to cook or anything, although I sometimes wash clothes. And all I have to do is play with him at night! I
guess our contract will depend on whether we continue to be suitable (cocok). He might get sick of me before five years is up! But he
did tell me that I am too sweet and good to get sick of! He gave me
Rp5 million (US$500) to come back here and get all my things.
(Field notes, 2000)

For Yulia, the terms of this relationship were something s/he felt proud of; s/he was
a ‘kept woman,’ a status that reflects for Yulia ultimate femininity. Indeed Yulia’s
relationship mirrored Indonesian marital ideals where a husband is required to

Calabai subject positions 145
provide financially for his spouse while a woman’s contractual obligations require
her to satisfy her husband’s sexual ‘needs’ (Idrus and Bennett, 2003). In addition to
being financially supported and sexually available, Yulia’s relationship followed
other gender normative expectations, as seen when the previous conversation continued and turned to the topic of sexual behaviour:
Sharyn:
Yulia:
Sharyn:
Yulia:
Sharyn:
Yulia:
Sharyn:
Yulia:
Sharyn:
Yulia:

Sharyn:
Yulia:
Sharyn:
Yulia:

So, do calabai usually want to be penetrated?
Do you mean like this [pokes thumb between first and second fingers;
another symbol to express male-male sex is made by placing one hand
on top of the other, palms down, and rotating the thumbs]?
Yeah.
Yeah, it’s nice like this (Iye’, enak juga kalau begini). It’s nice if we are
entered through the arse (enak kalau dimasuk di pantat). I lie on my
back, with my knees to one side. But we clean it.
When you have sex with Steve, do you use condoms?
There’s no need. I am very clean. I’ve had a koret.
Koret? What’s that?
You know, where they scrap out your arse.
So if Steve also wants to be penetrated, then you penetrate him?
No! Steve doesn’t want it like that. He just wants to enter me. If I entered
Steve, that would be called lesbian (itu namanya lesbian). But this is
such an, um (anu) topic Serli! [Pause for a few seconds.] But it’s big
Serli, ooo, it’s as big as this [walks over and picks up my roll-on deodorant, laughing].
Doesn’t it hurt?
Yeah it hurts (Iye’ sakit), so we have to go really slowly.
Do you use oil?
Yeah, we have to use oil: no oil, no sex! (tidak mau kalau tidak pakai
minyak).

In keeping with the dialectical relationship of masculine and feminine contrasts,
Yulia is adamant that Steve would not want to be the sexually receiving partner, nor
would Yulia wish to sexually enter Steve. I discussed Yulia’s use of the term lesbian in Chapter 2. Despite the fact that Steve’s partner is male, Steve is generally
considered to be a normal man (laki-laki normal), especially by Yulia (cf.
Boellstorff, 1999; Prieur, 1998: 233). Unfortunately, very little research in
Southeast Asia focuses on the partners of trans people.
Yulia considers it hir responsibility to ensure safe sex. Yulia does not question
Steve’s sexual health, but assures me that s/he is not carrying any sexually transmittable infections, thus reinforcing the expectation that it is a (married) woman’s
responsibility for safe sex and contraception use (Bennett, 2004: 37). Moreover,
Yulia’s reluctance for Steve to use a condom shows the existing cultural bias in
Indonesia against condom use (Bennett, 2004: 141). In exhibiting such passive
behaviours Yulia shores up Steve’s masculinity and simultaneously reinforces hir
own femininity. This consideration of sexuality picks up Parker and Gagnon’s

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Calabai subject positions

(1995) point that we have to shift understandings of sexuality from individuals to
systems of meaning and social networks.
Yulia was not the only calabai I met who reported having access to sex with foreign men. When I was staying in a hotel in Pare Pare a calabai named Arti told me
that s/he frequently had sex with Western, Asian and Middle Eastern men who were
passing through. Arti’s articulations stressed that the most attractive quality s/he
was looking for in foreign men was a penis (alat) that was not too large, a statement
contradicting normative expressions of desirable masculinity and a contrast to
Yulia’s earlier boasting about Steve’s large penis. Narratives such as Arti’s and
Yulia’s reveal the importance of recognizing transnational flows in the understanding of sexuality (Donham, 1998: 16) and examining spatial binaries such as
local/translocal (Manalansan, 2006) in accounts of Southeast Asian transgendered
personhood, practices, rituals and ideas.
Yulia and other calabai strive to conform to many ideals of femininity garnered
through local, national and international sources. While this section may suggest
that calabai see themselves as women and attempt to be/come women, the next section disrupts this notion by showing how calabai rework repertoires of dominant
gender ideals. Paradoxically, though, such reworkings often bring into sharp relief
Indonesian gender norms.

Queering gender
One way in which calabai reframe Indonesian gender norms is by showing the
mutability of gender:
I went to a house today where Yulia was preparing for a wedding. I was ushered through to the back of the house where I found Yulia up to her elbows in
a huge bowl of cake mixture. S/he greeted me with a smile. I found a small
space on the floor and sat down. Yulia was busy giving instructions to the
women in the kitchen; s/he fits so well into this world of women. The bride was
expected there soon [the groom’s house]. Everything was almost organized so
Yulia soon came and sat with me. We were joined by another calabai, Tilly. ‘I
have such small tits,’ Tilly bemoaned as s/he sat down. ‘So do I,’ I responded,
trying to reassure hir that there is more to being feminine than large breasts.
Tilly then said: ‘Ah ha, but you see, mine aren’t real! I can take ’em out . . . for
instance, if I want to wash ’em!’ At this she removed a piece of foam cut in the
shape of a breast from hir bra and waved it around. We were all in hysterics.
(Field notes, 2000)
Tilly wears a padded bra because breasts suggest femininity, yet Tilly removes hir
padding to challenge any assumed essential nature of femininity. Tilly’s antics
reveal a certain degree of gender playfulness and a parody of femaleness. As Prieur
(1998) comments for Mexico, the trans body gets stripped of its naturalness, breasts
and buttocks become indicative objects free to be aquired and used in signifying
practice.

Calabai subject positions 147
There are many other ways in which calabai use appearance to disrupt feminine
presentations. One example I recall is from an Indonesian Independence Day
Parade in Sengkang. Yulia led a troop of 40 or so calabai marching girls who were
all dressed in short silky skirts and tight tops. Yulia, however, marched wearing a
military combat uniform complete with webbing and black army boots, combined
with red lipstick and hir hair in ringlets, an action Stryker (1994) might call ‘genderfuck drag.’
Appearance features frequently in calabai performances of self. Indeed, a key
point of solidarity for many calabai is preparation for special occasions, such as
weddings (Figure 7.1). Before such an event, calabai often gather at a designated
place, usually another calabai’s house, and spend much of the day applying makeup, doing hair and dressing. Final presentations do not, however, generally evoke
ideals of Indonesian femininity; rather a mosaic of perceived local, national and
international styles is offered. The following passage details the process Yulia
underwent to get ready for hir birthday party revealing both a high level of camaraderie and the strong emphasis placed on appearance:
Yulia spends more time on hir make-up, hair and clothing than anyone I have
ever met. Yulia’s house is nice; a simple stilt, wood and bamboo place. S/he
lives alone, something a woman probably wouldn’t do; although a widow or a
divorceé perhaps might. I went over there yesterday to help hir get ready for hir
birthday party. Five of us were there: Yulia, Tilly, Yanti (all calabai), Yanti’s
boyfriend Fajar and me. In addition, the neighbourhood kids kept popping in
and out. Yanti and Tilly both helped Yulia apply copious make-up and hair

Figure 7.1 Calabai attending the wedding celebrations of a Bugis couple. Photo taken by
S. G. Davies.

148

Calabai subject positions
spray and, three hours later, the dress. A few other calabai called in during this
time to sit and gossip. Yulia’s face was first layered with white face powder
(bedak). This powder was also applied to hir bust because s/he was wearing a
low cut dress. Hir eyebrows were plucked into a strict arch, rouge was applied,
then lipstick. The make-up process was, however, relatively simple compared
to what Yanti did to Yulia’s hair. How to describe it? Yulia’s hair was turned
into an elaborate cone shape about 30 centimetres high. Yanti innovatively
used the silver slips of paper from the top of cigarette packets to curl Yulia’s
fringe. Yulia’s dress was equally elaborate – hot pink with small straps.
(Field notes, 2000)

At the party I was struck by how glamorous calabai were. To make sure all the other
guests noticed our group, we waited upstairs in the house for an extra 30 minutes to
let a sufficient number of people arrive to ensure a grand entrance. Many calabai
were dressed in intricate dresses. Some were short, lacy cocktail dresses, while others were long flowing evening gowns made of satin. Most dresses were low cut to
accentuate cleavage. A lot of calabai had sown their own dress in order to develop
designs that could not be bought locally. Many wore stilettos, and some even wore
platform stilettos. Make-up was heavy, and hair was curled and pinned up or left
down and flowing. A number of calabai had been on the pilgrimage to Mecca and
they therefore wore trousers, loose shirts and the peci cap as it is considered inappropriate for haji calabai to dress immodestly and reveal much bare skin. However,
peci came in various lurid colours, including pink. Moreover, all haji calabai wore
some cosmetics. Calabai displays of attire thus emphasize elements of flexibility.
While haji calabai conform to many of the regulations applied to people who have
made the pilgrimage, they find ways to assert difference, such as wearing variously
coloured peci.
Even when calabai may ostensibly resemble Indonesian ideals of femininity, a
closer examination shows deviations. The vignette at the start of Chapter 1
recounted a haji calabai beauty pageant where contestants were rewarded for mirroring desirable aspects of Muslim femininity. Following this particular beauty
pageant was another calabai competition. In this latter beauty pageant, calabai contestants incorporated aspects of femininity, such as wearing skirts and high-heels,
while concomitantly flouting such ideals by going to the extreme and wearing
micro-mini skirts and platform stilettos. Unlike the preceding haji calabai beauty
pageant, the subsequent one rewarded extroverted and flirtatious behaviour and
skimpy, sexy clothing. The winner of this competition wore an outfit that consisted
of four strategically placed fluffy pink pompoms and a pair of thigh-high patent
leather black stiletto boots.
In both pageants calabai presentations differed from what women in the audience
were wearing. No women donned busana Muslimah (Muslim attire), although a
number of women wore jilbab (head veils). All women covered their legs above the
knee and arms above the elbow by wearing either kebaya (traditional Malay-style
dress), a blouse and skirt or a dress. Women’s cosmetic use was less visible than
that worn by most calabai and women’s hair was commonly tied back in neat buns.

Calabai subject positions 149
The exception to this presentation of womanhood was the person singing in the
hired band; she wore very short shorts, a tight tank top, and her hair was curled and
left out, a presentation I discuss further below.
Later in the evening, when I was lining up for a buffet meal that was served after
the beauty pageants, I asked Pak Hidya, a respected village elder, why calabai seem
to present an altered image of femininity. He replied:
Because calabai have such a strong desire to be like women, they don’t want to
be just average women, they want to excel at it, to be almost over the top. It’s
part of calabai culture, part of calabai make-up.
(Pak Hidya)
While it could be argued that calabai exert so much effort to accomplish femininity
because of their more disputed gender position, it could also be posited that calabai
actively exceed femininity in order to affirm a separate gendered subject position.
Indeed, calabai rarely aim to pass as women, and they are seldom perceived as
women. As Pak Hidya later noted:
You can never mistake a calabai for a woman; calabai are so distinctive in their
appearance, like their eyebrows are always so highly arched.
(Pak Hidya)
Calabai draw inspiration from various sources in their presentations of self, including reworking perceived Western notions of contemporary femininity, images of
drag queens and representations from Mardi Gras parades, and Islamic, national,
and local influences (see Figure 7.2). Furthermore, as Manalansan (2006: 330)
reveals, diasporas and migration ‘have created new avenues for the transnational
flow of identities, ideas and practices under the rubric “transgender”.’ The result of
these various influences is often inventive fashions, distinctive make-up, intricate
hairstyles and camp behaviour (cf. Newton, 1972). Indeed, calabai preoccupation
with appearance, performance and ‘improvement’ provides calabai with a niche in
the entertainment sector.
At the start of this chapter I reproduced field notes about Fatilah preparing for an
upcoming adat festival. In addition to Fatilah’s students, other school students,
Islamic groups and calabai performed at this festival (Figure 7.3). While Fatilah’s
students did well, the acts that received the biggest applause involved calabai.
When it was the first calabai group’s turn to go on stage, the bus station where the
festival was held filled to capacity and the crowd grew so dense that I had to go right
to the front row to be able to take photos. The group danced to a funky song, wore
trendy, and very sexy, clothing, and provided slap-stick humour and caricatures of
femininity. For instance, calabai would often gyrate towards the audience and lift
their skirts to reveal frilly pink underwear.
The woman who followed the calabai group was dressed in similar clothing (i.e.
platform high-heels, a micro-mini skirt and skimpy tank top), and she did similar,
although less explicit, dance moves. However, unlike calabai who had drawn the
crowd in, when the woman starting singing, and she was a good singer and performer, there was an outward migration of people. The entire space in front of the

Calabai subject positions

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150

Figure 7.2 Winner of an AusAID-sponsored transgender fashion parade in South Sulawesi
accepts hir trophy. Photo taken by S. G. Davies.

Calabai subject positions 151

Figure 7.3 School girls perform at a cultural festival. Photo taken by S. G. Davies.

stage was quickly cleared. I was soon standing 20 metres from the stage with no one
in front of me. There were teenage boys standing around in groups not even watching the, to me, very sexy woman dance. It appeared that there was approval for calabai to wear sexy clothes and do sexy moves, but not for women. When I asked
people in the crowd their reaction to the calabai performances one person told me
calabai were ‘good people’ (mereka orang yang baik). Another woman responded
that calabai are great performers because they are lincah (lively, energetic, agile).
Other people, though, made jokes of calabai movements and speech and believed
them to have no shame (tak tahu malu), a derogative appellation. People tended to
be more critical, though, in response to the woman singer, with one man saying,
‘Women shouldn’t dress like that or dance like that, but I guess as long as she’s not
my sister I don’t really care’ (cf. Idrus, 2003). Calabai often receive endorsement
for breaching feminine expectations, unlike women, and this endorsement encourages calabai performances that queer gender norms.
In the last decade, calabai have experienced relatively high levels of freedom to
display particular repertoires of gender and experiment with appearance and
behaviour. Recent political events may lead to a constriction of such performances,
though. On 30 October 2008, Indonesia’s parliament passed the Anti-Pornography
Bill, ratified in November as Law No. 44 of 2008 on Pornography (Pausacker,
2008). Article 1 of the law states that:
[P]ornography is pictures, sketches, illustrations, photos, writing, voice,
sound, moving pictures, animation, cartoon, conversation, movements of the

152

Calabai subject positions
body, or other forms through a variety of communication media and/or performances in public which contain obscenity or sexual exploitation which violates the moral norms of society.
(Pausacker, 2008)

The law carries a penalty of up to 15 years imprisonment or a fine of up to Rp750
million (US$75,000) for actions that may include erotic dancing in public and public nudity, including showing the thighs and navel (BBC News, 2008; Pausacker,
2008). There has also been law changes in a number of South Sulawesi regencies,
such as Maros, Sinjai, Pangkep and Gowa, where the wearing of jilbab is now
obligatory for female civil servants (Idrus, pers. comm. 2007). Such moves towards
the enforcement of more conservative forms of dress and behaviour may have a
substantial impact on calabai performances and expressions of self. The fact that
there was widespread protest against the Anti-Pornography Bill does suggest,
though, that Indonesian society in general supports freedom of expression and is
against overt state control of behaviour (Allen, 2007: 111; Pandhuagie, 2008).
In addition to appearance and behaviour calabai rework other Indonesian gender
expectations. While calabai-men relationships often ostensibly reflect normative
gender ideals, as suggested earlier in Yulia’s account, there is a significant way in
which such relationships frequently differ. In Sengkang, most calabai financially
support their partner, and in many instances fund the latter’s eventual marriage to a
woman, moves that show the strength of Indonesia’s heteronormative familial obligations. In the previous section I reproduced a conversation I had with Yulia
regarding hir relationship with Steve, where s/he boasted of being a kept mistress.
Yulia has never had a serious relationship with a man in Sengkang, though, because
as s/he reveals:
I don’t want to have to look after a man, to give him money all the time.
That’s not for me. You know Fajar, well, all he was interested in was my
money. I had to end that relationship. I don’t want to be supporting any man.
Yanti [who is now seeing Fajar] can do that if s/he wants. I’ve never paid for a
boyfriend. I’m always paid for. If I have a boyfriend, he must buy me presents
and pay for me.
(Yulia)
As Yulia was unable to find a man in Sengkang who was willing to support hir, s/he
felt hir best option was to look elsewhere for a satisfying relationship. Tachrim, a
29-year-old man, also talked about how calabai are expected to financially provide
for their partners, thus countering the heteronormative assumption in Indonesia
that men should shoulder economic responsibility:
Calabai seem to be very generous. Almost always calabai-men relationships
are based on a . . . well, the man is always supported by the calabai. . . . given
food and accommodation, bought clothes, provided with entertainment, cigarettes. Indeed, all the needs and wants of the man are met by the calabai. This

Calabai subject positions 153
is one of the reasons that calabai make such attractive partners. And what’s
more, many men, after they’ve been with a calabai for a number of years, are
‘married off’ (dikasi kawin) by the calabai.
(Tachrim)
Similar sentiments are also presented by Pak Hidya in the following field work
excerpt:
On the way home from Sarimin’s, a calabai who makes hir living from weaving sarongs on a wooden loom and organizing weddings, Pak Hidya made
some interesting comments. He also told me that he had been a little nervous;
it was the first time he had met Sarimin and during the conversation he kept trying to put some jokes in to lighten the atmosphere. All the jokes were at my
expense, so I took this as a kind of apology! Pak Hidya said that it was common
practice for a calabai to contract (kontrak) a man to live with hir for three years,
after which time the calabai would arrange for the wedding (menjodohkan) of
hir former partner with a woman. If the calabai’s partner doesn’t want to marry
a woman, but wants to stay with the calabai, then the calabai gives the man a
gift, like a motorbike, and this pays for the contract for a few more years.
(Field notes, 1999)
Tachrim and Pak Hidya both suggest that relationships between calabai and men
are contractual agreements, implying that such relationships preclude affection as
a primary motivator. Indeed, Pak Hidya noted that calabai give an additional gift to
their partner for them to stay, even if the man wants to remain in the relationship.
Yulia also talked frequently about how s/he thinks relationships in Sengkang are
based on financial support extended from calabai to men. Another point that both
Tachrim and Pak Hidya raise is that calabai frequently pay for the marriage of their
partner to a woman. Similar narratives are found among hijra in India where Nanda
(1994: 402) records that hijra may adopt their husband as a son and arrange his marriage in the hope of establishing new kin structures. While establishing new kin
structures does not seem a motivating factor in Indonesia, that the partners of calabai eventually marry women does reveal the importance placed on heterosexual
marriage for men in the nation-state (Boellstorff, 1999).
While no one felt the need to justify why men wanted to eventually marry
women, or why calabai usually did not marry women, many reasons were given as
to why calabai pay for their partner’s wedding. Haji Sungke’, an elderly bissu
(transgender shaman) who still works as a midwife (dukun beranak), reveals:
If you give your partner (sahabat) a really good wedding, then many more
men, men who are very handsome (cakep), will be interested in you.
(Haji Sungke’)
Haji Mappaganti, a 60-year-old calabai who works at a local school and is also a
scout leader, paid for hir partner’s wedding for another reason though:

154

Calabai subject positions
If I were a woman I would have been married four times already. I was married
to a school student, an instructor, a civil servant and a tailor. Finally, I became
aware (sadar) that I had been wrong. So, therefore I arranged for the marriage
of my partner because he too was making a mistake. That kid was already stupid (bodoh), I didn’t want to make him more bodoh, so I arranged his wedding.
After that, many men wanted to live with me! But I was bored with fucking
(nyentot). Now the important thing for me is being able to eat and drink. I don’t
want to have to think any more about pleasure (senang-senangan). When I got
a bit older, I adopted a child from my sister so he could be a companion
(temani) to me.
(Haji Mappaganti)

While Haji Sungke’ spoke of the benefits for calabai of facilitating the marriage of
a partner in terms of the calabai becoming more popular among men, Haji
Mappaganti based hir decision to arrange hir partner’s wedding on moral grounds
stemming from hir understanding that same-sex sexual relations are a sin under
Islam. Haji Mappaganti became aware that s/he was making a mistake in pursing a
relationship with a man, just as s/he felt hir partner was also making a mistake. The
right course of action for Haji Mappaganti was to ensure s/he no longer engaged in
hedonistic behaviour and that hir partner married a woman.
That many calabai are able to both financially support their partner and pay for
their partner’s wedding attests to their relatively high income. For instance, calabai
indo’ botting (B, wedding mothers) may be paid up to Rp1 million (US$100) for
their work at a wedding (Figures 7.4 and 7.5). Similarly, Prieur (1998) found that
feminine jotas in Mexico do not necessarily see their subject position as a financial
liability, but often quite the opposite. Elsewhere in Indonesia, though, waria have
protested against there being a lack of suitable jobs. As one example, I was told that
in 2007 a waria who graduated cum laude at Gadjah Mada University in Java was
unable to get a single follow-up job interview. Indeed while calabai usually easily
find work in salons and at weddings, it is relatively difficult, although not exceptional, for calabai to work in other areas.
The perception of calabai being relatively wealthy is another reason cited for
why men become involved with calabai:
Sharyn:
Jero’:
Sharyn:
Jero’:

Why does a man choose a calabai partner?
The boyfriends of calabai tend to be very secretive. Maybe he needs
money.
What do you mean?
Calabai have lots of money and their boyfriends are spoilt (dimanja) by
the calabai and bought lots of things. But also some men may just like
calabai, they may have an inclination (cenderung) towards calabai.

There is the suggestion in Jero’s comments that calabai are rather like ‘sugar
daddies’ who in effect pay their partners for companionship and sex. While
there are certainly elements of this, in Jero’s view there are also other reasons why

Calabai subject positions 155

Figure 7.4 Calabai indo’ botting (wedding mothers) form a guard of honour at a Bugis
wedding. Photo taken by S. G. Davies.

relationships form between calabai and men, such as men having an inclination
towards calabai. In the conversation below, Nabilah, a civil servant in her mid-20s,
highlights a number of further reasons why calabai are considered to make good
partners:
Nabilah:

Sharyn:
Nabilah:
Sharyn:
Nabilah:
Sharyn:
Nabilah:

Oh, to have a calabai partner is very good. The world opens up for you.
You are given everything you could possibly need or want by the calabai. Like I know a guy who was just given a watch; but then they split
up and the calabai demanded the watch back.
So if a calabai and hir boyfriend break up, who usually starts it?
Usually it’s the man, because he starts to play around (main senang).
So the man is given lots of presents by the calabai?
Yeah.
Do you think that there’s true love as well?
You know, I think true love is really rare here. Sure it happens in
Europe, but here I don’t really think so. What tends to happen here is
kerja sambilan (literally, to work on the side, e.g. a casual job, or moonlighting). So I guess for bencong (calabai), too, true love isn’t really
important. It’s more about other things than love. Giving love and
affection (kasih sayang) are important though. But calabai do get very

Calabai subject positions

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156

Figure 7.5 Calabai indo’ botting oversee a Bugis wedding. Photo taken by S. G. Davies.

Calabai subject positions 157

Sharyn:
Nabilah:
Sharyn:
Nabilah:

jealous of women if their boyfriend takes an interest in a woman. But I
think there are many reasons why men go out with calabai. Often the
man has a wife and occasionally he goes and stays with the calabai.
Like Yulia, what’s s/he doing in Malaysia?
She’s living with a bule and she has been contracted by him.
Oh, so she just has one man? She isn’t working as a pelacur (prostitute/hostess)?
Yeah, just the one man.
So s/he’s a simpanan (literally, ‘on the side,’ a ‘storage,’ in this case, mistress) . . . she’s looked after (dipelihara). Yeah, some guys have a wife
and also a calabai simpanan . . . they get bored with their wife, she always
looks the same, maybe getting older and not so attractive, and she works
around the house. Also, all they ever talk about is problems they’re having. So men go and find calabai because they have a different body,
they’re very beautiful and wear beautiful clothes, and they’re more exciting. And most important, bencong can’t get pregnant! I too like hanging
out with bencong sometimes. You can gossip and stuff and also be really
frank (terus terang) and talk about topics that you can’t with girlfriends.
But watch out (hati-hati)! Don’t be alone in a room with them because
you never know if their man side is going to emerge (muncul)!

In the above narrative Nabilah talks about how men are interested in having a calabai mistress, inspired in part by calabai beauty and sense of dress, and because calabai cannot get pregnant. Nabilah also reveals ways in which calabai are seen
separately from women, mentioning that some married men specifically seek
affairs with calabai, and that calabai get jealous if their partner takes an interest in
women. Nabilah’s assumption that Yulia was working as a pelacur is a common
one made of calabai working away from home. This occupation is not generally
assumed of local calabai, however, as the Provincial Secretary reveals later.
Nabilah ended her account by warning of the capricious nature of calabai desire,
reinscribing calabai as male.
Throughout this section, notions of gender play and parody, exhibition, fashion
and style, financial wealth, relationships, marriage and affairs have all been discussed. In each of these arenas calabai rework notions of femininity and masculinity. In developing and performing particular subject positions calabai queer gender
forms and gender expectations. The discordance between calabai repertoires of
gender and normative gender prescriptions means that many discourses within
Indonesia serve to denounce calabai positions. At the same time, though, calabai do
receive levels of tolerance, acceptance and support, the complexities of which the
next section investigates.

Discourses surrounding calabai
The first thing Atin told me when we met was that s/he is 15 minutes older than hir
identical twin brother. While by Atin’s admission the two get on well, whenever

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Calabai subject positions

Atin talked about hir brother it was usually with hints of envy: ‘But he’s not like me
at all. My brother has a different nature (sifat). He’s big and strong; he’s a real man.’
The second time I met Atin I was interviewing bissu Haji Yamin. During the
interview Atin walked into the room and took a seat close to the door. Haji Yamin,
who was talking about how bissu come to be bissu, used Atin as a negative
example, saying:
Bissu are special. We have to be born bissu. If we are not born with these special parts then we would be just calabai, like that kid there. That kid over there,
s/he’s just calabai. During the day s/he wears a [baseball] cap and looks ordinary, but at night s/he gets spruced up and does hir hair and puts on make-up.
But that kid doesn’t even work at a salon or at weddings. Look at hir now,
s/he’s scruffy, and what’s that on hir face? S/he hasn’t even plucked hir
whiskers.
(Haji Yamin)
Atin was wearing a t-shirt, blue trousers, sandals and s/he had a denim purse slung
over hir shoulder. For Haji Yamin, not only is Atin relegated to a lower status
because s/he’s ‘just calabai,’ Atin does not even ‘do’ calabai properly. For Haji
Yamin, in order for calabai to have pride in themselves they have to be clean
shaven, femininely dressed and doing appropriate work, such as working in a salon
or preparing weddings. It was not just Haji Yamin who criticized Atin’s supposed
lack of effort in looking good, other people commented on this too.
At other times, though, Atin received positive responses from people in the community. For instance, after one visit Atin helped me hail a public pete-pete van for
the ride home. As we were waiting a number of women walked up to us and greeted
Atin warmly by name. They asked Atin about hir family’s health and said they
looked forward to seeing hir at an upcoming birth celebration. There was no suggestion of sarcasm or mockery in the women’s voices.
The respective comments by Haji Yamin and the women suggest the range of
responses directed towards calabai. While these responses are respectively negative and positive, other responses are simultaneously supportive and denigrating.
One area where such a combination is seen is through instances of humour. For
example, Atin frequently engages in comic interplay with the men who hang out in
the bookshop where s/he works. A lot of the joking that takes place is about Atin’s
relationships with men, such as the number of (unofficial) husbands s/he has at any
one time. Atin actively participates in this joking. One day when I went to visit Atin
at the bookshop I walked in to see hir sitting in an embrace with a man whom s/he
gleefully introduced as hir number one husband. Yet while Atin’s participation in
this form of entertainment facilitates hir inclusion in one particular social milieu,
Atin also finds that the constant joking about hir love life undermines hir life
choices. Moreover, such banter often relegates Atin to merely a source of humour.
The above vignettes suggest the complexity of calabai positioning in Indonesian
society. Haji Yamin denigrates Atin for hir scruffy presentation, while other people
are affable. Yet calabai also receive mixed receptions, such as we saw in relation to

Calabai subject positions 159
Atin and humour. In further illuminating the complexity of the position of calabai
in Bugis society the first part of this section examines some of the reasons why calabai are excluded and discriminated by society, while the second part moves to consider views of calabai that reveal practical levels of tolerance, acceptance and
support.
Disparaging perceptions of calabai
Many negative views are expressed about calabai in Bugis South Sulawesi. These
views stem in part from the perceived inability of calabai to control their passions
and emotions, their considered failure to be rational and sensible, the supposed
unrestrained nature of calabai sexuality, and the lack of modesty calabai exhibit. As
Chapter 5 revealed, individuals in Indonesia incapable of exhibiting such attributes
are often vilified (cf. Bennett, 2004: 137). Indeed Jackson (2000b: 957) found in
Thailand that the refusal of transgender male kathoey to follow the norms of
accepted femininity invited a lack of acceptance and tolerance. One specific source
of negative sentiment regarding calabai extends from the belief that calabai are
quick to get jealous, revealing their lack of emotional restraint:
Calabai get really jealous of their partners. Oh my gosh (astaga)! If their partner starts to be interested in a woman, watch out. Calabai possess really potent
magic, and they use it if their man tries to marry a woman. The woman whom
the boyfriend wants to marry would be dead. Believe it or not, it’s up to you,
but it’s true.
(Jero’, 32-year-old man)
In addition to jealousy, it is a common perception that calabai cannot control their
sexual passions. A potentially dangerous situation could arise, therefore, when calabai, who often have intimate access to both women and men in their capacity as
wedding organizers, get aroused. In the following passage, Jero’ and Dodid, two
men in their 30s, express a warning about trusting calabai, which echoes comments
made earlier by Nabilah:
Jero’:

Haji Baco’ once warned me about calabai, even though s/he is one. S/he
said, ‘Don’t trust calabai.’
Sharyn: What did s/he mean?
Jero’:
Well, s/he was talking about calabai’s role in weddings. They are put in
positions of trust, you know. Often they are alone with the bride in the
room getting her ready for the wedding. The calabai is putting on her
make-up and dressing her. Well, Haji Baco’ said that sometimes calabai
rape (memperkosa) the bride.
Sharyn: That doesn’t really happen, does it?
Dodid: That seldom happens, Jero’.
Jero’:
Sure, it doesn’t happen often, but it does happen. Tell Serli about your
wedding day, and the calabai who was feeling you up!

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Calabai subject positions

Dodid:

Well, there was a calabai who was employed to organize (mengurus) our
wedding and s/he was in my room dressing me, but s/he kept needlessly
feeling my body and squeezing my arms and touching me everywhere. I
was very uncomfortable.
Jero’:
Yep, while diving, drink water! (Iye’, sambil menyelam minum air,
meaning, take advantage of every opportunity).
Sharyn: I can understand why that would happen, but why would a calabai, who
is attracted to men, want to rape a bride?
Dodid: Because calabai have two sides to them, mostly they’re attracted to men,
but sometimes to women. If their passion rises (timbul nafsu) then they
can be attracted to women. Consequently, some people don’t want to
employ calabai, or they’re wary about letting them near the bride.
In this passage, both the perceived inability of calabai to control their passions, and
their vacillating desire for men and women, are sources of derogatory comment.
Haji Baco’, who gave a warning to Jero’ above, also cautioned me not to travel with
Yulia and hir friends to a neighbouring village where we would stay for a few
nights. Haji Baco’ feared, ‘Yulia’s man side might emerge and s/he might try and
seduce you.’ Furthermore, Haji Baco’ often said that while calabai may claim to be
attracted only to men, ‘You never know when their man side might emerge.’ Some
informants referred to calabai as being AC/DC, implying that they desire both men
and women (cf. Idrus, 2003). Reddy (2005: 44) also notes that hijra in India are
called AC/DC for the same reason. Pak Hidya expresses similar sentiments, referring to calabai as amphibians (amfibi):
There’s a calabai with a kid you know. Yes, there is. In the daytime s/he’s calabai . . . works, dresses, acts as a calabai . . . but then at night s/he goes home to
hir wife and kid and acts and dresses like a man and plays the role of husband
and father. We call hir amfibi because s/he can live in the sea and on land . . .
s/he can live in a woman’s world and a man’s world. S/he can live in two environments (alam).
(Pak Hidya)
The belief that the object of calabai desire changes arbitrarily causes many people
to be wary of calabai. Moreover, narratives such as the ones above suggest that
calabai may be merely putting on an act. For instance, an individual pretends to be
calabai to get work in a salon or as a wedding organizer, or in order not to arouse
suspicion if s/he seeks intimate time alone with a single woman. The notion that
calabai act under false pretences, and that their appearance belies their actions and
motivations, undermines calabai respectability. This supposed falseness is also
potentially a source of agency, although the particular form that this nonconformism takes is subject to available models of being (Parker, pers. comm.
2003).
Flowing on from this discourse of artificiality is the notion that calabai do not
have a sense of who they are. Haji Mulyadi, a local Islamic instructor (imam),

Calabai subject positions 161
indicates that if calabai want to be accepted, they have to discover their true self and
be consistent:
According to calabai they believe that it’s their fate (kodrat), but they say that
because it’s their habit (kebiasaan). And because it’s their habit, they can
change it. Here is the proof, Serli (Sharyn), some calabai have kids! So you see
their inner characteristics can be changed (sifat bisa berubah). Certainly their
dominant nature (sifat) is woman (wanita), but there is a way out. For instance,
they can change their genitals (merubah kelaminnya).
(Haji Mulyadi)
Haji Mulyadi argues that human agency, rather than fate, underpins calabai subjectivity. He indicates that if calabai were true calabai they would not have children.
For Haji Mulyadi, having children is not appropriate for calabai because if an individual has a kodrat calabai they will not find women attractive. Haji Mulyadi
ignores the possibility of calabai having children because of a desire to do so, or
because of societal pressures. According to him there is a way out, though, whereby
calabai can have sex reassignment surgery and become ‘proper’ women, a ‘solution’ advocated in countries such as Iran (Vossoughian and Esmaeli, 2006).
Extending the narrative of being true to oneself Laly, a 22-year-old man,
states below that calabai deserve social condemnation in part because they lie to
themselves:
They [calabai] have self-confidence (percaya diri). They work well with
others and are bold enough to lie (berani bohong). They lie to themselves
(berbohong kepada diri sendiri). They are men, but convince themselves
they’re not men. I only believe 20 per cent of their story because they always
lie to themselves. It’s exaggeration (hiperbola). If they say something they
exaggerate (melebih-lebihkan dan menambah-nambahkan). If they are all
together, everything gets blown up, like they say, ‘Oh s/he went to the hotel
with him and spent the night,’ but really they just went walking. Before they
felt inferior (merasa minder), they stayed at home, and there was just one in the
family, but now they believe in themselves. They tell funny stories, they aren’t
serious, and they have their own version of everything, they gossip and joke.
Maybe for them it’s serious but for listeners it’s funny.
(Laly)
Laly makes a number of intriguing comments in this narrative. His assertion that
calabai are bold enough to lie, and that they even lie to themselves, is a strong moral
condemnation of calabai subjectivity. Laly believes that calabai are men and that
they are lying to themselves if they think otherwise. That calabai now have selfconfidence and have the courage to be publicly open about their identity is a great
source of concern for Laly. In the past, at least in Laly’s eyes, calabai were less visible and less confident. Due to the more relaxed environment of post-Suharto
Indonesia, political and social solidarity spearheaded by groups such as GAYa
Celebes (cf. Boellstorff, 2000), and through events such as beauty pageants and the

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Calabai subject positions

influence of gay consciousness in the West and surrounding regions, calabai are
now more vocal and more assertive. This is a worrying trend for Laly and it motivates him to be openly critical of calabai.
A further reason behind calabai’s liminal position is that they are often perceived
to be exhibitionists and promiscuous, and they are considered to inappropriately
reveal intimate details of their sexual adventures. For instance, one day I was visiting Yulia while s/he was cooking for an upcoming wedding. There were a number
of calabai, women and children in hir house, all helping with certain aspects of the
cooking process. Along with a number of others, including a few children, I was
given the task of dipping saté sticks into peanut sauce. As we sat around in a group
Tilly, the calabai who removed hir foam breast and shook it around, started lamenting about how s/he was fed up with men:
I’m done with men! Men come and kiss me here [pointing to her lips], touch
me here [holding her breasts], and enter me here [pointing to her crotch].
Ooooooh, it’s delicious (enaknya)! Agh, but all too often they fuck (nyentot)
me and leave me.
(Tilly)
At this point a toddler stumbled past and Tilly shook hir breasts at him. Then s/he
lifted hir hair to reveal two love bite bruises on her neck. No one said or did anything to indicate offence at Tilly’s antics, although the resulting laughter may have
been a way of dealing with hir social transgressions. Tilly’s freedom of sexual
expression relegates hir to a position of reserved acceptance, though. As Parker
(pers. comm. 2003) notes, the effect of someone acting outrageously is often an
unexpressed feeling that the person is not worthy of respect (hormat). As a woman
once told me, ‘Tilly is always welcome here, but I wouldn’t want my daughter to be
alone with hir.’ Tilly’s preoccupation with appearance, hir exhibitionism and outrageousness, and hir lack of sensibility and propriety, are all sources of disparaging
comment, but also sources of jovial inclusion.
Islam, like other sources of gender norms operating in Indonesia, expects people
to control their passions and be reserved about publicly expressing sexual information. Although, as Acciaioli (pers. comm. 2003) found among Bugis fisherman in
Central Sulawesi and Bennett (2004: 137) reveals for young women in Lombok, in
same-sex peer groups individuals can be relaxed and quite explicit about discussing
sexuality. In Islam there is a more powerful sanction levied against calabai than
unrestrained discussion of sexuality though; sexual relations between two males is
considered a sin (cf. Murray and Roscoe, 1997). A number of informants mentioned that they deem calabai to be committing sinful acts:
There was a man from Java here this morning, Pak Salim. He asked me lots of
questions about waria (calabai) and was very interested in the topic. In his
opinion they have an illness (penyakit). He is mostly concerned that they are
having such an impact on society that, as time goes by, there will be more and
more waria (makin lama makin banyak waria). Pak Salim thinks that anyone

Calabai subject positions 163
who hangs around waria will turn into waria and therefore in the future we will
be overrun by waria. He also thinks that they are a dangerous influence on children because children are so malleable. According to him, waria sin against
God because they have the same genitals as their partner. It is good that people
tease them, Pak Salim said, because through teasing they will change their
behaviour and become like men. He couldn’t understand how waria want to
have kids and was shocked when I told him some do.
(Field notes, 2000)
For Pak Salim, Islam forbids sexual relations between individuals with the same
genitalia and as such calabai are committing a sin. Correspondingly, Pak Bata’, who
works as a driver between Sengkang and Makassar, states that even though calabai
have been given a certain fate (kodrat), sex between two males remains sinful:
I have calabai friends, but I still think it’s pagan (musyrik, literally polytheistic) and a sin (dosa). It may be their kodrat, but for a male to act like a woman,
and to sleep with a man, that’s a sin.
(Pak Bata’)
For some informants, the sin (dosa) of calabai is not their homosexuality per se, but
their insincerity towards Islam and their hypocrisy in undertaking the pilgrimage to
Mecca. For instance, Haji Ismail, a strict Muslim man, reveals below that the sin of
calabai partly stems from his belief that they go to Mecca not for religious reasons,
but merely to have sex:
There are calabai who go to Mecca and this is disgusting, but what can you do?
Maybe they apply [to go to Mecca] very sincerely, and we also hope that they
will become enlightened there and come home being holy. But many calabai
who go to Mecca go there to have sex and there are men in Mecca who use the
services of calabai. They will all go straight to Hell!
(Haji Ismail)
Andi Zainuddin, who has worked for many years at the Department of Religion in
Sengkang, reiterates such sentiments about the insincerity of calabai who undertake the pilgrimage to Mecca:
Calabai just go on the hajj to Mecca so they can get the title [of haji]. They
come home from the Holy Land (Tanah Suci) and they’re still wearing dresses!
They get on the plane in trousers and get off in a dress. They just want the title
to feel proud. When they come to the Department [of Religion] to get checked,
I tell them they have to behave like men and they listen to me because they
want to go to Mecca, but they come back and go back to their usual ways.
(Andi Zainuddin)
While many calabai themselves spoke of undertaking the pilgrimage with pious
devotion, and were adamant that they did not go to Mecca merely to get the title of

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haji or to have sex, they nevertheless felt conflict between their identity and their
religion. Haji Jayarti, a 60-year-old calabai, notes, ‘There are problems with being
Muslim and calabai. Yes, there are difficulties (ada kesulitan).’ Indeed calabai
often consider their lust for men to be a sin, as one elderly calabai, Haji Abdul,
reveals:
I don’t know, this may be an illness (penyakit). I sleep [next to] young men, but
I am a haji, so it feels like a dosa. But I have to, I can’t stand (tahan) it if I don’t
sleep with young men. I wear women’s clothes when I go to sleep, and my toes
touch the toes of the young man next to me, and only then can I sleep.
(Haji Abdul)
Haji Abdul feels that sleeping next to young men, even if only in a Platonic sense,
is a dosa because s/he is a devout Muslim who has been on the pilgrimage to Mecca.
Many calabai struggle with this dilemma to such an extent that they force themselves to change:
When I was young, I had a woman’s name, Bulang, which means the most
beautiful one. But you know, after I came back from Mecca I had to stop dressing like a woman. And I had to refuse to have any boyfriends. But I can never
be completely like a man because God gave me a different fate from everybody
else. So what isn’t forbidden in Islam I carry on with. So I cook and sew and
arrange weddings.
(Haji Baco’, elderly calabai bissu)
While Haji Baco’ is able to suppress many of hir desires, most calabai did not
express an ability to do so. Indeed, Jero’ told me, ‘Haji calabai may know it’s a
dosa, but their feelings of being like a woman are stronger than their feelings for
Islam.’ As calabai get older, however, this ratio may be reversed and their commitment towards Islam may become increasingly strong:
When they’re young, calabai might think they’ve been given the wrong genitalia, but then they get older and realize that for better or worse this is what God
gave them, and if they want to get into heaven, then they have to act how men
in the Qur’an should act. So they pray and acknowledge their male self (diri
laki-laki). Almost all young calabai have a woman’s name, but rarely do older
calabai.
(Andi Lutfi, 28-year-old man)
Andi Lutfi and the others cited above assert that many aspects of calabai way of life
are not in accordance with the teachings of Islam. Islam thus frequently serves as a
moderator of calabai behaviour and a basis for anti-calabai sentiment. In some
instances, intolerance towards calabai is extended beyond rhetoric and individual
censure. During the 1950s regional rebellion in Sulawesi, Islam was used to justify
violence against calabai and bissu, and many individuals were killed (Andaya,

Calabai subject positions 165
2000). More recently, there have been attacks on calabai and calabai organizations
in Makassar and wider Indonesia. Andi Akbar, head of the Makassar gay organization GAYa Celebes, told me that Muslim extremists burnt down their headquarters
in 2001 (see also Boellstorff, 2004a). In 2005, around 100 members of the Islamic
Defenders’ Front stormed into a club where the Miss Waria Indonesia contest was
taking place and demanded that the event be disbanded (BBC News, 2005). The
police in attendance managed to persuade members of the Front to hold talks with
some of the event’s organizers. Kortschak suggests that ‘disappointed that the
event did not reach the hoped-for levels of moral depravity or, perhaps more likely,
intimidated by the police presence, [the Front] was finally persuaded to leave
peacefully’ (Kortschak, 2007). Indeed as the organizer of the pageant, Megie
Megawatie, subsequently remarked, ‘Perhaps we should be thankful to them [the
Islamic Defenders’ Front]. They raised the profile of our event dramatically’ (cited
in Kortschak, 2007). Yet while Islam was evoked as a motivator for this and other
similar attacks, it was a necessary rather than a sufficient condition (Boellstorff,
2007a: 161–80), revealing the complex relationship between Islam and transgender in Indonesia.
In addition to Islam, issues of social status and siri’ (honour/shame) come into
play when assessing discourses surrounding calabai. We heard earlier that for
Yulia’s noble parents, having a calabai child caused such a level of siri’ that they
felt compelled to leave Sengkang. Indeed, high-status people are expected to
strictly observe gender norms and as such any gender transgression by a member of
the nobility is quickly noted by others and publicly censured. Additionally, in a
society where the inheritance of status is important, the general expectation that
calabai will not have children means that calabai are criticized for not carrying out
familial responsibilities. The high degree of siri’ felt by Yulia’s family also signals
a difference in the way the status system affects calabai and bissu. Bissu have
assumed connections with the spirit world and the noble white-blooded descendants, as Chapter 8 reveals. This connection often allows bissu to maintain a
respected position in Bugis society. Calabai, however, do not have this particular
precedent (although they may lay claim to it) and, therefore, calabai do not necessarily receive the same level of respect often awarded to bissu.
Accommodating views of calabai
While certainly negative views of calabai are articulated, I found that such opinions
were not generally expressed in daily life. By the end of my field work period most
people knew my research topic and may have offered affirming observations of calabai thinking it would gain my good favour, but officials at the Department of
Religion, for instance, would be unlikely to present a tolerant view of calabai just
for my benefit. I provide below examples, drawn primarily from the arena of religion and local government, which suggest that in spite of the discussion in the first
part of this section calabai are acknowledged as an integral part of Bugis society.
The first vignette stems from a visit in 2000 to the Department of Religion in
Sengkang:

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Calabai subject positions
This morning I took a horse cart (dokar) to the Department of Religion. I
wanted to find out how many calabai are going on the hajj to Mecca this year
and how many haji calabai there are in Sengkang. I was led into the lobby and
within 15 minutes I was joined by nine men and three women who promptly
began bombarding me with questions (e.g. Where are you from? How old are
you? Are you married? Do you want a Bugis husband?). Realizing that I would
not be taken into a smaller, less intimidating office, I broached my own series
of questions. Fearing my questions would be taboo (some women were wearing jilbab and it was the Department of Religion), I was somewhat apprehensive. No one appeared embarrassed by my questions, though, nor preached
about sin. In fact, I was told in an almost boastful manner that Sengkang has
more calabai making the hajj than any other town in South Sulawesi. This is
what I recorded from the conversation:
Haji Manang:

Haji Idrus:
Haji Manang:

Sharyn:
Haji Muhammad:
Sharyn:
Pak Ali:

So what do you want to learn about calabai? The type of
alat-alat [tools, i.e. sex toys] they use? [Everyone
laughed]. No? Well, 2,720 people out of a total population
of 500,000 went to Mecca last year from Wajo’ [the
regency of which Sengkang is the capital] alone. It costs
Rp22 million (US$2,200) to go on the hajj, so it’s pretty
expensive. Now you want to know how many calabai go
on the hajj? Quite a few, yes. Well, last year there was one
kloter [kloter is a contraction of kelompok terbang, which
means flying group, so one plane load] of calabai who
went to Mecca. This year, though, there are only 30. But
you see, when calabai go on the hajj, they have to dress as
men, they can’t wear a dress.
But what about Sri? S/he wore a skirt!
Yes, but that’s because s/he’s had the chop (dipotong). Sri
has been to Singapore and got rid of hir male genitalia
(kelamin lelaki), so s/he isn’t male anymore. That’s why
s/he can wear women’s clothes. In fact, s/he now looks
more appealing in women’s clothes than do women,
right! When people come to register, we [officials]
already know which calabai have changed their genitalia
(merubah kelaminnya). If they have not had the operation, then they have to wear men’s clothes. If they have,
then they can wear women’s clothes.
Do calabai change at all if they go on the hajj? I mean, like
their nature (sifat)?
Once a calabai always a calabai! They go on the hajj as
calabai and come back as calabai.
A very high percentage of calabai go on the hajj, compared to the rest of the population. Why is this?
They have money left over (tinggal duitnya). They don’t

Calabai subject positions 167

Sharyn:
Pak Ali:
Haji Yadi:

have any kids to support or a wife and they make a lot of
money from working as indo’ botting and in salons. Look
at Eka; s/he has nothing left to spend hir money on.
But often if calabai have a partner (sahabat), their partner
is paid for, right (dibayar toh)?
Yes, this is often the case . . . [He is interrupted by Haji
Yadi.]
Every year calabai go on the hajj, but they always come
back as calabai. Maybe they make an oath (sumpah) but it
doesn’t always last. Haji Baco’ changed, though. When
Haji Baco’ was young s/he was the prettiest calabai in
Sengkang. Haji Baco’ made a sumpah, though, that s/he
would go to Mecca and come home and not have any
more husbands. And it’s true, hir sifat changed when s/he
got home. When Haji Baco’ was young, s/he only ever
played with calabai. S/he used to have many husbands.
But then s/he went on the hajj.

The officials raise a number of interesting points here. While they started by joking
about calabai (e.g. mentioning sex toys), conversation soon moved to boasting
about the high number of haji calabai in Wajo’ regency. This high number mirrors
that of the broader population with Idrus (2003: 5) recording that Wajo’ had the
fourth highest number of people in Sulawesi making the pilgrimage in 2003. The
ability of calabai to undertake the hajj reflects the relatively high incomes some calabai make, particularly through their work at weddings. Indeed, Idrus (2003: 5)
notes that by 2003 the cost of going on the hajj had risen to Rp30 million
(US$3,000).
While Haji Baco’ was mentioned as an exception, there was acknowledgement
by the officials above that generally once someone is calabai, for better or worse,
they are always calabai. Yanti, a middle-aged calabai, also reveals such sentiments:
At first many parents are very angry that their child is like that and they try to
make their child like a boy. But you know, over time they realize that if hir
make-up is like that, then they have to accept that this is a suffering given by
God for them to endure patiently (sabar menderita).
(Yanti)
For Yanti, the parents of calabai have to endure the suffering of having a calabai
child because if a person’s make-up is to be calabai, nothing can be done to change
it. Indeed, many people spoke of the permanence of being calabai in terms of calabai being given a certain fate (kodrat) by God:
A long time ago, the raja of Soppeng [a district of South Sulawesi] was calabai,
but s/he had to get married to avoid siri’. In my opinion, if it doesn’t disturb
anyone, then it’s fine by me. But here we have religious and social laws that

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Calabai subject positions
prohibit it [homosexuality]. So sometimes they have to be secretive (sembunyi). But then calabai have their own nature. It’s something that pushes
through from the heart (hati, literally liver) and, if that is the case, then no one
can prohibit (melarang) their behaviour . . . they have a contemptible curse
(hina kutuk). If someone falls in love with a man, then that’s the road they’ve
been given by God and so what can they do about it? They can’t deny (mengingkari) their kodrat.
(Puang Sulai, a respected nobleman)

For Puang Sulai, because calabai have been given a kodrat by God there is no possibility of evading being calabai. As such, while Puang Sulai erroneously believes
there are Indonesian laws against homosexuality, whereas in fact the Indonesian
Penal Code does not outlaw consenting adult homosexuality, he exonerates calabai
of any responsibility over their own actions. While this view is not supportive in the
sense of encouraging or celebrating calabai, it does promote a degree of tolerance
and even acceptance of calabai. Yet such a judgment is regressive in that it renders
calabai a passive subject devoid of any agency.
In addition to notions of God-given fate, various general interpretations of the
Qur’an are used to justify calabai subjectivity. According to one calabai named
Fatilah, the Qur’an states that sexual relations between two men are forbidden
(diharamkan). S/he stresses, however, that relationships between calabai and their
partners are not forbidden because such relationships are not between two men but
rather they are between two males with only one of them identifying as a man. In a
somewhat analogous way, one of Boellstorff’s (2005a: 580) interlocutors noted
that if a gay man were to have sex with a real (asli) man this would be a sin, but if
both men were gay, then this would not be a sin because that is how God made them.
Similarly, Beazley (2003: 26) found in her work with street children in Yogyakarta
that boys did not consider sex with each other or waria as homosexual activities.
A male civil servant called Andi Jafri also uses the Qur’an to provide support for
a certain type of calabai:
It’s clear that the Qur’an forbids calabai, but there are different types of calabai, and the Qur’an doesn’t forbid all of them. There are calabai who are really
men, but who like to wear women’s dresses, make-up and do women’s work,
but they have a wife and children. These are not calabai and they are committing a sin. There are also men who just want to have sex with men. They are also
sinful. But real (asli) calabai . . . well, for them it’s a genetic thing, they were
born that way so society must accept them. Why be shy (malu) about what God
has made you? Why be malu when it’s God’s will?
(Andi Jafri)
For Andi Jafri, asli calabai are not forbidden in the Qur’an and society must accept
such calabai because this is how God created them. While such a view may encourage tolerance and even acceptance of calabai such a perspective also promotes feelings of pity towards calabai thus restricting calabai inclusion in society.

Calabai subject positions 169
In a more explicit use of the Qur’an, Haji Yamin cites specific tenets to support
hir subject position. Haji Yamin interprets the phrase Al Hunza bil Hunza to mean
‘whatever a person may be, if they are true to themselves, they are not committing
a sin’. There is a similar proverb in South Sulawesi that states, ‘Whoever, although
a man, has female qualities, is a woman; and [whoever] although a woman, has
male qualities, is a man’ (Pelras, 1996: 163). While Haji Yamin expresses some
reservations about being a Muslim calabai, s/he believes that because s/he is being
true to hirself, s/he is not committing a sin. When I recounted this narrative to Haji
Ismail, a strict Muslim man, he commented that Haji Yamin has perhaps misunderstood the Qur’an. In Haji Ismail’s understanding, Al Hunza bil Hunza implies that
it is acceptable for a male to act like a woman, for example for a male to perform
women’s roles like cooking. What the Qur’an does not condone, according to Haji
Ismail, is homosexual behaviour and the nature of calabai (e.g. feeling like, and
having the attitude of, a woman). While Haji Yamin’s interpretation may indeed be
idiosyncratic, it is notable that s/he uses specific phrases from the Qur’an to justify
hir subjectivity.
One of the reasons for the deployment of Islam to support calabai subject positions extends from the relative lack of Islamic discussion about male homosexuality in Indonesia. Indeed homosexuality rarely comes up within Islamic debates
anywhere, unlike in Christianity where homosexuality is of central concern
(Gallagher and Bull, 2001). While male homosexuality is considered a sin in the
Qur’an, there is no mention of specific punishments for anal sex (Murray and
Roscoe, 1997: 307), although there is a hadith that states that a husband should
‘visit’ his wife in the ‘right’ place (i.e. vagina), and another Hadith that prohibits
anal sex (Idrus, pers. comm. 2008). The lack of punishments for homosexuality in
the Qur’an is in contrast to heterosexual adultery, though, where punishments are
explicitly detailed. Similarly, proposed changes to the Indonesian Penal Code
(Article 493) do not attempt to outlaw consenting adult homosexuality, although
any sexual relations between a man and a woman outside marriage (zina) continue
to be criminalized (Blackwood, 2007).
Such an absence of Islamic debate regarding male homosexuality in Indonesia
leads Boellstorff (2005a: 576) to argue that homosexuality is incommensurable
with Islam as a public Indonesian discourse. One result of this incommensurability
is that homosexual subjects and homosexual acts generally remain outside official
social debates in the archipelago. As Blackwood (2007: 302) notes in her discussion of the regulation of sexuality in Indonesian discourse, homosexual relations
are considered to be in less need of regulation than heterosexual relations. The productive constraints of incommensurability thus enable calabai to find habitable
spaces outside the discursive consciousness of society.
The limited discussion of Islamic homosexuality in Indonesia oftentimes places
the onus on individuals to employ interpretation to form answers about sexuality
(cf. Boellstorff, 2005a: 581). For instance, Boellstorff (2005a: 578–9) found that
acts of interpretation enable some gay men in Indonesia to see being gay as not sinful, or at most to see it as a minor sin, as long as they eventually marry women and
have children. Other gay men, though, do not believe they have to marry because

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they see marriage as a duty (kewajiban) only if you are capable (mampu) of heterosexuality. For others it is the act, not the desire, that is a sin, so some gay men avoid
penile-anal sex (Boellstorff, 2005a: 579). The use of interpretation thus enables
both gay men and calabai to frame their subject positions in liveable formats vis-àvis Islam.
In addition to narratives of justification and tolerance extending from religious
bases, some government officials also positively acknowledge the position of calabai. For example, calabai in Sengkang have their own official (resmi) organization
called Persatuan Waria Wajo’ (Wajo’ Association of Waria), which is endorsed by
the regional government. This endorsement helps present calabai as legitimate
members of society, as one calabai, Tofi, states:
Persatuan Waria Wajo’ is the most famous organization in all of South Sulawesi
because we are officially supported by the government, and our organization
has been made official. And we get government funding. And what’s more,
we’re always invited to all of the official functions and ceremonies.
(Tofi)
In some cases government support is also extended towards waria from a national
level. For instance, Islamic leader and former President Abdurrahman Wahid
attended the 2006 Miss Waria Indonesia pageant held in Jakarta. Competing waria
epitomized femininity and the event followed exactly the Miss Indonesia contest
format, leading Kortschak (2007) to argue that, ‘Playing by society’s rules, it
seems, rather than confronting its values, has been a recipe for success.’ A further
example of the often supportive relationship between calabai and government is
seen in the following 1999 field note extract:
As I’ve been away from Sengkang for almost two weeks, I wasn’t up with all
the happenings. Sitting reading on the balaé-balaé (a large wooden platform)
this morning, a man called out to me from the street, ‘Serli, there’s a lot of calabai in front of the Government (Dinas) Building.’ I thanked him and raced
down. I arrived at the building and the man at the gate knew why I was there
and led me across the lawn to a large building at the back. It was very crowded
and I went through the side door and was greeted by Frida, who was taking
everyone’s names. So far 120 calabai had signed in – 22 of whom had been on
the hajj. I saw Eka and s/he waved me over.
Sharyn: What’s this for, Eka?
Eka:
This is the election for a new president (ketua) of Persatuan Waria
Wajo’.
Sharyn: Does this happen every year?
Eka:
No, only every five years.
There were initially eight candidates in the running, but five dropped out. The
remaining candidates gave speeches, mostly just introductions. Next Frida

Calabai subject positions 171
went up to the microphone and began reading out the names of each person
who had signed in. When their name was read out, they walked up to the front,
took a ballot paper from Risna, went into the pink voting booth, and secretly
selected a candidate. When everyone had voted, the box was shaken and then,
one by one, the votes were pulled out and the candidate’s name read out. These
were tallied up on the white board. There were six non-partisan officials sitting
adjacent to the panel of candidates. The officials included the District
Secretary, the head of the Department of Social and Political Affairs, a woman
from the Office of Women’s Affairs, someone from Family Planning, and two
other men. The District Secretary (Pak Sekwilda) oversaw the calling out of
the votes. Eka emphasized to me that Persatuan Waria Wajo’ is not only supported by the regent’s (bupati) office, but is also well funded by it.
Until now I had been sitting in the audience but Pak Sekwilda spied me and
said over the microphone, ‘Serli, Serli, come up here with me.’ So up I went,
feeling very shy. He put his arm around me and said, ‘This here is Serli and she
is researching calabai so help her out in any way you can. Invite her to your village so she can see how calabai live.’ He then asked me to say a few words in
Bugis, which made everyone laugh. I then sat on the stage with the officials and
Pak Sekwilda started his speech:
‘You have the support of the bupati’s office. We will help you develop the
arts to keep adat alive by giving funding and facilities so we can beat waria
from [the province of] Sidrap at the next adat festival [waria from Sidrap
province had recently beaten waria from Wajo in an adat cultural competition
involving dancing and singing] [Loud applause]. We need waria because how
could we organize weddings without waria? I have three things to say: Don’t
get AIDS, don’t do drugs, and long live waria! My wife’s friend’s husband left
her because s/he couldn’t rid hirself of hir calabainess. We all know about
VCD (video compact disk) pornography. We are all Muslim and it is a sin to
watch these films that show fellatio (sepong). You can get a disease around the
mouth. And there is also AIDS and PMS (penyakit menular seksual, sexually
transmitted infection, STI). At Karebosi (the central square in Makassar) you
can sell yourself for a short time for Rp20,000 (US$2). But is it worth it? AIDS
has entered Indonesia. I have never heard a bad report about waria in Sengkang
working as prostitutes, so please don’t start. It’s safer never to have sex, or to
just masturbate (coli’-coli’). But if you must, please use a condom. They are
sold quite cheaply now. There’s no need to sepong, or you will get a PMS that
will spread all over your mouth. [An overhead projector emerged and I
excused myself from the stage so I could watch. Horrifying pictures of genitals
afflicted with STIs were shown.] Just masturbate (Coli’-coli’ aja dong)! [Lots
of laughs.] All of these diseases can be transmitted by the anus (lubang dubur),
mouth, and toothbrush. So just use a condom. Indeed, you’re not waria if you
don’t like men, but you have to be careful (Memang, bukan waria kalau tidak
suka laki-laki tapi harus hati-hati). Don’t destroy the character of waria, if one
thing is changed, then all are (adversely) affected (Jangan merusak citra
waria, satu yang berubah dikena semua)!’

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When Pak Sekwilda’s speech ended, all calabai present raced up onto the stage,
pushing and shoving to shake his hand, and the hands of the other officials. The
officials’ support of calabai and calabai activities was striking and reflects the
wider support base calabai tend to find in Sengkang. Pak Sekwilda’s comment
regarding STIs and HIV/AIDS does, however, reflect wider patterns of disinformation and discrimination in Indonesia (cf. Boellstorff, 2009). Despite Yulia
recounting earlier that hir parents felt forced to move away over the shame of
having a calabai child, Yulia finds Sengkang a tolerant place to live, particularly
compared to elsewhere:
[I want to make my body more like a woman’s] . . . but you know, no matter
how much silicon I get pumped into me, I will always be betrayed by this
[points to hir Adam’s apple]. We can get breast implants, we can get our penis
cut off and a hole made, but we can never get rid of this, Serli, because if we did
we wouldn’t be able to talk. And that’s why I wear a veil (kudung) when I’m in
Malaysia, so no one knows. Here [in Sengkang] it doesn’t matter, but calabai
aren’t accepted over there. This is my village. I don’t get harassed here. In the
other place a number of calabai have been killed. You know that the [former]
Deputy Prime Minister [Anwar Ibrahim] was sent to jail because he raped
(memperkosa) a man. I am not a true woman, I am a male, but I have all the
feelings of a woman. Maybe if I come to your village, Serli, all the people there
will be surprised (kaget), and they will say, ‘Why is there a person like this’
(kenapa ada orang begini)? Would I be able to get work in your village, Ser, as
a calabai?
(Yulia)
There are a number of reasons why Yulia and other calabai find Sengkang and
wider Indonesia a relatively tolerant place to live. One reason lies in the strong
belief that calabai have been given a fate by God. If calabai have no choice other
than to be calabai, many people feel calabai must be accepted. Another reason for
such levels of tolerance lies in the lack of public discussion about the supposed sin
of homosexuality. Moreover, some people understand the relationship between a
man and a calabai not to be homosexual because it is not a relationship between two
men. A further reason why calabai find Sulawesi comparatively accepting of gender and sexuality diversity lays in acknowledgment of gender multiplicity, as
Chapter 1 explored. Moreover, segments of the Bugis past celebrate variously gendered subject positions, as Chapter 3 revealed, and individuals are able to call on
this past to help affirm a place in society. Calabai also have a number of occupational roles, such as wedding organizers and salon attendants, that accord calabai a
degree of respect. Other factors are additionally relevant in creating tolerant spaces
for calabai, such as the relative wealth some calabai accumulate; aesthetic and exhibitionary skills calabai show in adat displays, performances and other competitive
contexts; and the resurgence of adat and concomitant moves to gain more regional
autonomy for South Sulawesi where calabai are held up as examples of assumed
Bugis cultural and ethnic uniqueness. While there are many negative discourses

Calabai subject positions 173
about calabai, and in many respects calabai are placed in marginalized positions,
there is a general support base for calabai within Indonesia, particularly within
Bugis South Sulawesi.
* * * *
This chapter has explored ways in which calabai rework repertoires of masculinity
and femininity, positing positions of self that are not necessarily recognizable as
either normative woman or man. While not dismissing the harassment and discrimination calabai face, the chapter has additionally shown that many calabai
speak of the relatively high level of tolerance, and even acceptance and support,
they receive in Bugis South Sulawesi, and Indonesia more generally. Part of the tolerance extended to calabai stems in part from the precedent of bissu shamans, a subject position to which this book now turns.

8

Bissu subject positions

Bissu shamans are able to harness the powers of female and male, and mortal and
deity in order to bestow blessings for such things as restoring good health, consecrating a building site, or ensuring a good harvest. When I started field work in 1998
few people outside Bugis South Sulawesi knew of bissu. Even within Sulawesi
many individuals assumed my research centred on people who were bisu (mute).
Ten years on, though, bissu have become a global commodity with the production
of a number of stage plays and documentaries, and the publication of numerous
works all featuring bissu.8
This chapter explores various aspects of bissu life, including performances,
roles, contacting the spirit world, becoming possessed and granting blessings. The
chapter also addresses questions such as: Who are bissu? Must one be born bissu?
If not, how does one become bissu? What does being bissu involve? How are bissu
viewed within Bugis society, especially in relation to Islam? Recognizing that
underpinning bissu subjectivity is their combination of female and male, mortal
and deity, the chapter starts by examining bissu embodiment.

Bissu embodiment
Mariani was born in 1949, although people often comment that s/he looks like s/he
was born much later. To such remarks, Mariani replies that hir secret elixir for looking young is associated with bissu magic. Indeed, the practice of magic is often
commensurate with an unconventional status, as Bacigalupo (2004b: 512) found in
Chile and Parker (2003) reveals for Bali. Mariani was born in a hamlet just outside
the Sulawesi town of Pangkep and this is where s/he continues to live. Almost
everyday people come to Mariani’s house, which is crowded with a large assortment of ritual paraphernalia, to seek a blessing for one thing or another. Mariani
was raised for most of hir childhood by a person s/he refers to as nenek (grandparent). This was probably a collateral relative of the grandparental generation, rather
than a biological grandparent, as Mariani’s nenek was also a bissu. The kris (sword)
that Mariani now uses for the ma’giri’ self-stabbing ritual, a ritual that is explored
in more depth below, was hir nenek’s and hir nenek’s before hir (Figure 8.1).
When talking about what attributes bissu should have, Mariani is quick to
assert that bissu must embody male and female elements. Indeed as Blackwood

Bissu subject positions 175

Figure 8.1 A kris sword used for performing ma’giri’. Photo taken by S. G. Davies.

(2005a: 852) notes for Indonesia more generally, ‘Gender-transgressive ritual
practitioners embody a gendered cosmology that requires the manifestation of gender ambiguity or duality to preserve the community.’ Mariani sees hir combination
of female and male as follows:
Well, this is my male side. See, this is where my beard grows [s/he strokes a
few long facial hairs]. But this side [my left side] has none. If I pluck these [on
my right side] then that would be like saying I am not part male. I would get ill
if I tried to pull these out. On this side [my left side] no hair grows, that’s my
female side.
(Mariani)
Mariani’s lateral configuration of female and male is similar to what Anderson,
drawing on Kroef (1956: 182–95), recorded for Java:
In ancient Javanese art this combination [of male and female] does not take the
form of the hermaphrodite of the Hellenistic world, an ambiguous transitional
being between the sexes, but rather the form of a being in whom masculine and
feminine characteristics are sharply juxtaposed. One finds, for example, in the
ardhanari type of image that the left side of the statue is physiologically
female, the right side male. The essential characteristic of this combination of
opposites is not their merging but their dynamic simultaneous incorporation
within a single entity.
(1972: 14)

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Bissu subject positions

In a similar way, burake healers in Sa’dan Toraja, Sulawesi, combine female and
male elements laterally, although they may also merge these elements horizontally,
or along the posterior and anterior aspects (Tsintjilonis, 2006: 554).
Mariani additionally embodies female and male elements in hir accoutrements.
For example, when conducting a ritual, Mariani adorns the left side of hir hair with
flowers (a feminine symbol) and carries a kris on hir right side (a masculine symbol). Kroef (1956: 190) recorded that in the 1950s, ‘The bisu on such occasions
[when performing ceremonies] wears the sarong and typical jacket of women, with
a wealth of feminine adornments, but at the same time he wears the kris and head
cloth of the male’ (cf. Chabot, 1996[1950]: 191; Nooteboom, 1948: 249).
Another bissu, Haji Yamin, reaffirms that the singularly most important attribute
for bissu to embody is a combination of female and male components. In hir early
70s, Haji Yamin boasts of having made the pilgrimage to Mecca 27 times. As
expected of someone who has been on the hajj with such frequency, Haji Yamin is
a devout Muslim and prays five times a day, without exception. Haji Yamin also
habitually wears the Islamic peci cap, which is in stark contrast to hir dark eye-liner
and lip gloss.
In hir capacity as bissu Haji Yamin has bestowed numerous blessings over the
last 50 or so years. S/he is acknowledged by hir apprentices and followers as an
expert in bissu rituals, traditions, and the bissu language and Haji Yamin is keen to
share hir knowledge, although strictly at hir convenience. Because s/he is getting
older, s/he no longer performs blessings, preferring to leave this to hir apprentices.
Haji Yamin has an additional reason for no longer granting blessings. In order to
bestow a blessing, bissu must become possessed by a spirit (dewata) and they must
then prove their possession by performing the self-stabbing ma’giri’ ritual. Haji
Yamin believes that performing ma’giri’ is against Islamic principles as it is an
attempt to inflict harm on oneself. However, bissu Mariani, who is also Muslim and
begins each blessing with a prayer to Allah, demeans Haji Yamin’s refusal to perform ma’giri’:
If Allah doesn’t approve of what I and other bissu are doing any more then we
wouldn’t be able to become impenetrable (kebal). So if Allah doesn’t approve,
next time we perform ma’giri’, the blade will enter our skin and we will die.
(Mariani)
There is competitive rivalry between Haji Yamin and Mariani, with both bissu constantly endeavouring to commandeer the most apprentices and supporters. There is
congruence, though, in their thinking about bissu constitution as both individuals
acknowledge the fundamental importance of bissu containing male and female elements. Labelling bissu as either male or female is thus problematic as such attributions imply a certain sexual dimorphism that is not clearly evident in bissu
narratives. Haji Yamin and Mariani do, however, have different interpretations of
just how bissu contain male and female. While Mariani asserts that bissu combine
female and male aspects laterally, Haji Yamin considers bissu embodiment
specifically in terms of sexual ambiguity. Indeed this ambiguity is not so much

Bissu subject positions 177
about presenting female and male qualities within the one being as it is about
refraining from exuding quintessential male or female properties:
In order to become bissu you have to be born like that. Then when you’re
young you start moving like a woman. You can’t have a penis. You see, calabai
have a penis; their penis lives (hidup kontolnya, i.e. they can get an erection).
But as for bissu, they can’t have a penis, they can’t have a penis that lives. I
don’t have a penis because you can’t be a true bissu if you have a penis. See, I
can prove it to you, if you want. Do you want me to prove it? Look!
[Haji Yamin lifts up hir sarong and, with legs spread, reveals that s/he has no
visible penis. S/he pats hir genitals laughing]. See? To be bissu you can’t have
a penis.
(Haji Yamin)
Haji Yamin was born with what s/he phrases as ambiguous genitalia and s/he
believes that only such people can become true bissu. Indeed, Bugis scholar
Halilintar Lathief (pers. comm. 2007) suggests that bissu fuse male and female:
‘We no longer know their [bissu] sex, which one is male or female; the two have
already united’ (tidak diketahui lagi jenis kelaminnya, yang mana lelaki atau
perempuan, keduanya telah menyatu) (cf. Lathief 2004: 57; Hamonic, 2002: 8).
Haji Yamin does acknowledge above, though, that it is possible for a bissu to
have male genitalia as long as s/he does not have a functioning penis. If s/he does
have a functioning penis that person would be clearly male and, for Haji Yamin,
merely calabai. While Lathief (2004: 39) argues that all bissu are calabai, although
not all calabai become bissu (cf. Lathief, 2004: 38–40), most bissu see their subject
position as distinct from calabai, in part because calabai are male whereas bissu
contain male and female elements.
An additional way in which bissu avoid broadcasting sex-specific attributes, and
therefore present androgyny, is by not menstruating. Some individuals thus
become bissu after they reach menopause. Indeed, historical sources across
Southeast Asia indicate that senior females gained in ritual importance as their
potential to endanger men through menstruation and seduction decreased (B. W.
Andaya, 2000a). Such individuals were considered able to bridged the gap between
the human and spirit worlds and became shamans (B. W. Andaya, 2000a).
While the above paragraph hints at there being female bissu, there are very few
reported cases of such individuals (see also Chapter 3). During my field work I met
just one ostensibly female bissu. In addition, Haji Yamin spoke of a female bissu
whom s/he termed bissu pance (B, short bissu). There is evidence, though, of
female bissu of noble lineage forming the first line of defence in military conflicts,
wielding swords and shuttles, the sacred male and female symbols used to ward off
evil spirits (B. W. Andaya, 2000a: 237; L. Andaya, 2000). Furthermore, in the La
Galigo epic cycle, some bissu are referred to with the feminine prefix Wé
(L. Andaya, 2000). These individuals are not necessarily female though as there is
some flexibility in the use of appellations. For instance, Leondard Andaya (2000:
14–15) remarks that a number of bissu in La Galigo may possess a female personal

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name and be given a male title, or vice versa. Such flexibility possibly reflects the
nature of bissu being both female and male.
A reason for the lack of ostensibly female bissu may relate in part to Islam. As
Blackwood (2005a: 862) argues, ‘Transgression of gender boundaries by femalebodied ritual specialists challenged Islamic beliefs about the nature and purpose of
the sexes.’ As a result, when Islam came to the region in the seventeenth century
women’s magico-religious roles and power may have begun to decrease (Rössler,
1997). Furthermore, concomitant pressures on the elite classes to control and
seclude women may have additionally stigmatized female-bodied ritual specialists
(Blackwood, 2005a).
The above bissu narratives affirm the importance of bissu embodying and presenting combined female and male qualities. The primary reason bissu must do this
relates to the requirement that bissu undergo possession and communicate with the
spirit world. As one Bugis man commented, ‘We don’t know if God is male or
female, so only someone who is half man and half woman can be possessed
(kadongkokang, B) and mediate with the spirit world.’ For this man, bissu must
assume the same sex as God to undergo possession, but since the sex of God is
unknown bissu must be both female and male. In a slightly different interpretation,
Mariani asserts that in order to be possessed bissu must combine the powers of male
and female, and mortal and deity:
Bissu are beings who are both woman and man. But we’re also part of the spirit
world. The connection I have with the heavens makes me part deity (dewata).
But I’m human (manusia) as well, you see . . . if I was just human I couldn’t
contact the gods, and if I was just dewata, how could I live in this world? Also,
you must understand, neither a man nor a woman is powerful (sakti) enough to
be possessed (disurupi) by dewata, and if you can’t be possessed, then you’re
not bissu. It’s the combination of woman and man, and human and dewata that
makes us bissu.
(Mariani)
For some people, the way in which bissu come to embody female and male,
and mortal and deity, is through being pre-differentiated. For Mariani, predifferentiated means that when bissu descend to earth they do not divide into man
or woman like regular humans. Instead, they remain a perfect unity of both female
and male. As Errington (1989: 124) argues for Southeast Asia more generally,
beings that are sexually ambiguous are considered ‘potent not so much because
they combine or conflate the duality of sexes but because they are as yet predifference, they embody an unbroken unity.’ Similarly, in her work on India,
Reddy (2005: 90) notes that the auspicious power of hijra, a subject position similar to bissu, stems from their undifferentiated nature. Preserving this composition
means bissu retain their connection with the spirit world, which is severed when
humans differentiate into female or male. This continuous connection provides a
means for bissu to entice spirits to descend to earth and possess them during ritual
blessings.

Bissu subject positions 179
The union of female and male, and mortal and deity, forms the basis of bissu
positionality and underscores the power and potency they embody.9 Indeed, only an
individual who embodies such characteristics is able to commence the arduous path
towards becoming recognized as bissu.

Becoming bissu
Some individuals, like Haji Yamin, become aware of their potential to become
bissu as a result of their intersex status. Others, such as Mariani, may innately know
their destiny. Yet, for many others, such as Haji Sungke’, their special calling is
revealed through a dream. Haji Sungke’ is an elderly bissu who lives in an out-ofthe-way village on the northeast coast of South Sulawesi. Hir house is spacious and
filled with all sorts of bissu paraphernalia. Many of the roles that s/he undertakes
draw on hir bissu credentials. For instance, Haji Sungke’ is an expert in ritual dance
and s/he is probably the most knowledgeable of all bissu on such matters. S/he
knows which dance is required for which ceremony and can perform it on the spur
of the moment. One of hir favourite tricks is to entertain neighbourhood children by
getting them to name a ritual dance, such as the pakkaréna (B), and then incorrectly
performing a sequence to ensure that the children are paying attention. Haji
Sungke’ is getting quite frail, however, and hir once sprightly renditions are
becoming more laboured.
Haji Sungke’ had no idea of hir special calling in life until s/he had a dream
epiphany:
How did I know I was bissu? How did I get the knowledge (pengetahuan) to
become bissu? It came to me in a dream. My teacher was from above. I was
taught by Séuwaé. I learnt from my dreams. It was like I wasn’t awake, but I
wasn’t asleep. When I first dreamt it, it was in Bahasa Cina (Chinese). I didn’t
want that, so then it came in Bahasa Jawa (Javanese), then in Bahasa Makassar,
none of which I accepted. Then the dream came in Bahasa Bugis. I studied for
eight days and eight nights through my dreams.
(Haji Sungke’)
Not only did Haji Sungke’ receive the call to become bissu through hir dreams, but
as this narrative shows hir dreams also taught hir the sacred bissu language. The
notion of a dream epiphany dictating one’s life course is not uncommon. For
instance, two-spirit youths in North America receive messages about their future
life course in dreams and visions (Whitehead, 1981: 86). Psychosomatic phenomena are another way in which individuals obtain the calling to become bissu, as
Hamonic reveals:
Becoming bissu was often not a matter of free choice but the result of a call by
a supernatural being, who became the mystic spouse of the new bissu. Even
today male transvestite bissu, who can be considered both male and female,
even when in ordinary life they have a male husband, have two supernatural

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Bissu subject positions
spouses, one male and one female. The call is often marked by a psychosomatic phenomena (sudden mutism, catalepsy) requiring a ritual cure.
(1987b: 174–5; cited in Pelras, 1996: 83)

The call to become bissu signals the start of a long process. While the bissu language, variously referred to as Basa/Bahasa Bissu, Basa Toriolo (B, Language of
the Ancients), or Bahasa Dewata (Language of the Gods), may be quickly transmitted, many of the other processes take years of concerted effort to master.
Mariani outlines below some of the knowledge a bissu initiate must acquire:
You can’t become bissu, you must be born bissu. But you’re not born a
complete bissu. It’s like you, well, you’re born with the ability (kemampuan)
to become bissu. Someone born without this ability can’t become bissu . . .
no matter how many chants they learn, or how many genealogies (silsilah)
they know, they can’t become bissu. People know at birth if you have the
ability to become bissu. Maybe you have a penis, but if that penis lives (kalau
hidup kontolnya, i.e. gets erect), you’re not bissu. But you don’t just
become bissu because of that. There are many steps. You have to learn the
sacred language of the gods, memorize chants, learn genealogies and act as a
home for spirits called to earth. The big test comes when you do the bissu initiation ceremony and you wake up from the dead and you know Bahasa Bissu
fluently.
(Mariani)
While in this narrative Mariani asserts that knowing Bahasa Bissu is the key to
being recognized as bissu, s/he details many other criteria that must be fulfilled. On
another occasion Mariani elaborated on these other criteria:
One has to be born bissu because it’s a special role . . . if not, they’re calabai,
like that person there [pointing]. By the age of 13 you should be aware of your
bakat (omen, talent) and at this time you enter the palace and learn about being
bissu. But we don’t learn the sacred language [through books or studying from
other bissu]; if we don’t already know it [from our dreams], then we are not
bissu. To become bissu, you have to want to (punya keinginan). You have to
study about the instruments (alat-alatnya). You have to learn and memorize
mantra. You have to know and understand the knowledge (ilmu) and the
magik. You have to know the bissu language . . . about the sacred texts, know
the dances, chants, offerings, rituals and ritual prayers. You must memorize
many genealogies. You must be able to heal the sick and bestow blessings. In
this way, you can go from being a bissu mamata (B, unripe bissu) to a bissu
tanré (B, high bissu). There are many other things too so you can’t tell if someone will become a bissu without them performing the proper rituals. The
deities (dewata) must also be called, but I cannot say the sacred names of the
dewata, Serli (Sharyn), without conducting a ritual ceremony.
(Mariani)

Bissu subject positions 181
In many ways Mariani suggests above that becoming a bissu is like undertaking an
apprenticeship. Yet while Boellstorff (2005b) posits that such a subject position
may be learned solely through apprenticeship, and as such individuals are neither
born nor ‘become’ bissu in a developmental sense, many bissu narratives, such the
one above, stress the importance of innate potential.
In addition to the numerous prerequisites Mariani outlines above, in order to be
recognized as a bissu one must adhere to certain ascetic principles. For instance,
bissu must be sexually abstinent and avoid feelings of desire (tanpa nafsu), not just
for sex but for any earthly thing. The imperative of sexual abstinence is suggested
in the following narrative told to me by a 40-year-old Bugis woman, Andi Kailia:
There was once a female bissu who called hirself bissu, but everyone was very
surprised and said to hir, ‘How can you be a bissu? You have children!’ The
bissu answered, ‘Indeed I do, and I have a husband, but s/he is not of this world,
s/he has no physical form!’
(Andi Kailia)
The bissu in this narrative intimates that s/he was married to a deity and that hir children were the result of divine conception. Indeed bissu often marry deities
(Hamonic, 1987b: 174–5). Although this bissu may have been trying to exalt hir
social standing by convincing people that s/he had not been involved in illicit sexual activities, s/he nevertheless utilizes and reaffirms the connection between bissu
and the supernatural world and emphasizes the significance of sexual abstinence.
Individuals must present an image of purity (kesucian) in order to become bissu.
As such, bissu cannot expel sperm, menstruate, or breast-feed because these bodily
fluids are considered polluting. Elsewhere, Nourse (1999) discusses further notions
of avoiding sperm emission, menstruation and breast feeding, and the symbolism
of bodily fluids in Sulawesi. Some bissu, like Haji Yamin, symbolize purity by
habitually wearing white. Purity can also be presented through consumption practices. Mariani, for example, does not drink tea or coffee or eat any type of confectionary as s/he sees these consumables as contaminating the body. Ascetic practices
and purity are essential for bissu not just because they signify potency, as Nanda
(1994: 385) found for hijra in India, but also because they are creators of potency
(cf. Anderson, 1972).
The importance placed on bissu adhering to ascetic practices and embodying
purity results in numerous precautions being taken to guarantee compliance. To
ensure sexual abstinence, for instance, castration used to be required of ostensibly
male individuals before they could become bissu, as Haji Yamin reveals:
Bissu were the guards of the palace. But they didn’t use physical force because
they had magic spells that made them invincible (kebal) and they protected the
regalia (arajang). They also helped the raja. Because bissu were allowed into
hidden (sembunyi) parts of the palace, the raja made sure that all bissu were
castrated (dipotong) because the raja didn’t trust bissu with his wives because
there were people who said they were bissu just to get close to women. They

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Bissu subject positions
[bissu] didn’t think about their life after the palace, they only thought about the
chance to work for the raja. No bissu would consider this [castration] a sacrifice because it was such an honour to serve the palace.
(Haji Yamin)

In addition to precautions such as castration, severe sanctions were levied against
bissu found disobeying ascetic prescriptions. As one example, bissu in the past
caught in wrongful sexual relations were boiled in tar (Pelras, 1996: 167). Lathief
(2004: 58) also mentions a case where a bissu, after marrying a woman and having
a child, was stabbed to death with a kris for contravening sexual prohibitions.
The imperative to embody ascetic principles and purity means that not all candidates become installed as bissu. Moreover, installed bissu who are unable to adhere
to such guidelines will not be promoted. One bissu confided that the requirement of
abandoning all earthly desires was the main reason s/he delayed hir nomination as
Puang Matoa, the head of the bissu community: ‘I was not ready to become Puang
Matoa; there were still things on earth that I liked doing, things that I was not ready
to give up.’ Indiscretions by bissu are at times tolerated, though:
A bissu and one of the four calabai organizing this wedding just ran up and
invited everyone in the room to come downstairs and look for guys (mencari
cowok). They then raced around looking for a mirror, fixed their hair, added a
little make-up and straightened their clothes. Doesn’t this challenge the asceticism of bissu? Andi B told me that this particular bissu often looks for men at
weddings. If the bissu is the one who likes the man, then s/he pays for any sexual activity (around Rp10,000/US$1). If the man likes the bissu, the man pays.
If they both like each other, then neither pays. The bissu is the receptive partner. Andi B doesn’t know if this bissu likes to enter men, but he said s/he plays
karaoke (main karaoke, i.e. performs fellatio). Apparently this doesn’t undermine hir role as bissu.
(Field notes, 2000)
Lathief (2004: 59) notes that a large proportion of young bissu continue to
experience same-sex romantic desires. Moreover, they act on such desires. Some
bissu then dismiss their indiscretions by saying: ‘There’s nothing we can do . . . if
we are lacking, then we just accept things as they are’ (cited in Lathief, 2004: 59).
There are similarities here with what Reddy (2005: 39–40, 150) found for hijra in
India, where there is an assumption that ‘real’ hijra do not desire sex with men, but
if they do have sex with men society may still respect them because they have at
least the desire to be abstinent. Nanda (1990: 3–4, 10–11) also noticed that hijra
who engage in homosexual prostitution for economic reasons do not necessarily
undermine their ritual status. While in some cases, such as the one above, bissu
indiscretions may be tolerated, in general bissu who flout ascetic ideals are
chastised. For instance, Lalang, an 18-year-old man once said in regard to another
bissu, ‘How can s/he be a bissu when s/he’s running around [having sex with men]
like that?’

Bissu subject positions 183
There are then numerous requirements that need to be fulfilled before an individual is installed as a bissu. Even after adhering to all the aforementioned criteria,
though, there is a further rite of passage, which Mariani explains:
The initiation ceremony goes on for three days and three nights. In order to
become a bissu, you have to go to sleep for three days and three nights, and be
like you’re dead (irebba, B). It used to take seven days. You must be wrapped
in white taffeta cloth (kain taftan) and placed on a raft in the river near the birth
place of the sixteenth raja of Boné. Above there is a mirror, on the left and right
there are mirrors, so that the bissu candidate (calon bissu) does not follow the
wrong path. After this, s/he is bathed in the river and installed (dilantik) as a
bissu. Then the bissu emerges (muncul).
(Mariani)
The covering of bissu with a sheet and the subsequent emergence follows Turner’s
(1969) pattern of a rite of passage that involves liminality and the separation of secular and sacred manifestations. During this rite of passage, the spirit of the bissu
rises to the heavens and the bissu becomes irebba, a concept Lathief (2004: 43–7)
discusses further elsewhere and which has ritual parallels in neighbouring Toraja
(Tsintjilonis, 2006: 554). While some bissu sleep on a raft, in Luwu regency bissu
candidates must sleep below a royal umbrella (payung tompo’tikka, B). The
overnight experience is similar to installation processes in Bali where adherents
observe the all night ‘death’ of a candidate who is reborn the next morning as a
priest (Parker, pers. comm. 2002).
When the spirit of the bissu candidate finally arrives in the spirit world, the candidate must seek permission from dewata to become bissu (cf. L. Andaya, 2000: 42).
It is during this journey and the subsequent meeting of dewata that the particular constitution of bissu is vital. If a bissu candidate does not embody male and female elements, s/he will not be received by the spirit world and therefore will not become
bissu. Moreover, if a newly installed bissu conducts ma’giri’ and s/he has not been
blessed by dewata, s/he will die when s/he performs this self-stabbing ritual. Indeed,
Lathief (2004: 44) reveals that a number of bissu candidates are not brave enough to
attempt ma’giri’ and therefore they have not become full bissu. Those who do successfully carry out ma’giri’ and all the other rites of passage, though, can begin taking advantage of their new bissu status. While some subject positions similar to bissu
may only occupy their ritual place for part of their life, part of the year, or only during certain rituals or performances (Boellstorff, 2005b: 45–6), most bissu I met
likened being bissu to being an imam or a parent; it can be like a profession but one
cannot stop being bissu at the end of the day. Being bissu is something innate and
informed by particular understandings of biology and gender (as explored in
Chapter 2), and as such being bissu underscores an entire way of life.

Being bissu
After many years of training, Mariani, Haji Yamin and Haji Sungke’ finally
became recognized as bissu. As bissu, they were able, and expected, to take on

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Bissu subject positions

numerous roles. Chapter 3 describes four of the legendary and historical functions
performed by bissu: making the world blossom; facilitating marriage; guarding
sacred regalia; and organizing and protecting royal courts. Indeed bissu continue to
play an important role in marriage ceremonies (Davies, 2007a) (Figure 8.2). In further exploring bissu subject positions this section concentrates on the contemporary ritual roles of bissu.
While Mariani laments the formal abolition of the royal courts, which were the
primary source of bissu sponsorship until 1957, s/he has actively seized upon the
advantages offered to bissu in the relaxed post-Suharto era. In the following narrative, Mariani speaks of changes that have occurred in respect to bissu activities
since the 1950s:
Now that there’s no raja, and there’s no palace, bissu have to find other ways to
make a living, like being a dukun (traditional medical practitioner), or a cultural expert (tokoh adat), or working in beauty salons, or selling sarongs
(sarung), or working at weddings. You see, before, all our expenses were met
by the raja . . . like to build a house . . . but now the bupati (regional governor)
changes every five years and he/she doesn’t want to invest in bissu. Before,
whoever became Puang Matoa (Head Bissu) received one hectare of land,
given to hir by the raja. But that was in the past (zaman dahulu). Now the government has built culture offices (kantor kebudayaan) and schools on the land
that was given to bissu. Before, bissu were given land and they were allowed
to keep the produce from that land. Now there’s no place to gather. Before it

Figure 8.2 Bissu consult with family members on the best way to conduct a Bugis wedding.
Photo taken by S. G. Davies.

Bissu subject positions 185
was in the best interest of the raja to protect us because we would conduct the
marriages of the raja’s children [e.g. perform the wedding ceremony], do their
circumcisions (sunat), bury the raja, and perform all the life ceremonies for the
nobility (bangsawan). But now the bupati changes so often, what’s the point?
But we still play many important roles. If we need rain, or if people want to
bless the rice fields (mappalilli’, B), if a new ruler is installed (dilantik), if
there’s a royal wedding, if someone wants to travel, if someone is sick,
if there’s a war, if . . . a member of the noble family dies, if there’s a birth, if
there’s a natural disaster (bencana alam) like a flood, cyclone, storm, drought
. . . if any of these things happen, then we are ordered (disuruh) to perform a
ceremony. To avoid a natural disaster, for example, we perform the maccéra’
wanua (B) ceremony. So bissu are still important, but it’s changed.
(Mariani)
Mariani touches here upon many of the roles bissu now carry out. While the rituals
are similar to those performed prior to 1957, a dramatic change has occurred in
respect to the people who request these rituals. Before 1957, bissu rituals were performed almost solely for the nobility. People who now request bissu ceremonies are
often not of high status, nor necessarily wealthy. Rather, a defining characteristic of
people who ask for bissu blessings is their strong belief in the importance of Bugis
tradition. This belief is certainly not limited to people in rural areas or to nominal
Muslims.
Of all the blessings requested from bissu, perhaps ironically one of the most popular is the request for a blessing to ensure safe passage on the pilgrimage to Mecca
(cf. Lathief, 2004: 94). The following field work narrative from 2001 details one
such ritual:
I went to a bissu ceremony today where a woman, Andi Lacceng, requested a
blessing to go on the hajj. She wore jilbab (head veil) and her husband, who
came with her for support, wore a peci cap. All morning Mariani prepared the
room. S/he cooked about two kilos of sticky rice (sokko patang nrupa, B) and
then dyed it into four colours which s/he said represented the earth (black),
wind (yellow), water (white), and fire (red). There were three younger bissu
helping hir with all of this, and a whole lot of other people I didn’t know. After
the rice was divided among ten plates, Mariani went and got a number of
sacred sarongs (lipa’, B). S/he said the sarongs pass on knowledge. They were
unfolded and hung over a bamboo pole at the side of the room. Then Mariani
and the other bissu started setting up the altar. It was placed at the front of the
room and was made of bamboo slats. The altar sat on stilt legs and was about
one meter off the ground. It was like an open box 1.5 metres square. The back
inside was adorned with an embroidered yellow sheet, which had a lot of
Arabic writing on it. The altar was then filled with a collection of candles, eggs
(tello’, B), bananas, sirih leaves, coconuts, puffed rice (benno’, B), and other
little knick-knacks like tin boxes and post cards. Two baskets (walasugi, B)
filled with rice were also placed inside. At either side of the altar was a yellow

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Bissu subject positions
umbrella. The room was then filled with decorated cake stands (bosara’, B)
containing cakes, which we ate at the end. Mariani then started burning
incense. It got so smoky that Mariani’s eyes began watering, adding to the
mystic environment. A man called Andi Mahmud came and sat next to me and
told me snippets of information at various times. He said that this was not religion (agama), it was adat. But there were a lot of Islamic elements, like the
sheet with Arabic writing and, while Mariani mainly spoke in Bahasa Bissu,
s/he recited prayers in Arabic. Furthermore, the ritual food was not thrown
away because Andi Mahmud said that it would be against Islam to throw away
food. It is believed that the spirits take the essence of the food and therefore it
can be eaten later. Andi Lacceng finally arrived and she sat on the right side of
Mariani. She passed over some money, about Rp5,000 (US$.50) for the altar
offering and Rp20,000 (US$2) for each bissu. She had also brought two chickens – one female, one male – and they were very docile. A blessing can cost up
to Rp500,000 (US$50) in total. Then the blessing started. ‘What’s the name [of
the person requesting the blessing]?’ Mariani asked. ‘Andi Lacceng,’ the
woman replied. The bissu then started chanting and waving the incense burner
over the altar. Puffed rice was thrown over the altar and Andi Lacceng, and
then over us in the audience. The chickens were taken one at a time and circled
around the smoke. There were about 50 people there. Four people held a sheet
above Andi Lacceng and the bissu. Drummers played fast music and an old
woman played the cymbals (canang, B). Mariani spun an upside down cup on
a saucer filled with water and sirih leaves. Coconut husks were burnt. Mariani
chanted all the while. Hir chanting got louder and s/he started shaking. Then
s/he became really quiet. When s/he revived, the spirit was within hir and s/he
turned to Andi Lacceng, took her hand, and spoke in Bahasa Bissu. Andi
Mahmud said that the spirit was conveying to Andi Lacceng that she would
have a safe journey. Mariani fell back (we were all sitting on the floor) and then
came out of the trance. S/he then said to Andi Lacceng, ‘Now don’t forget,
even if you make the hajj, you must come back and give thanks (syukuran) or
you will have bad luck. You have to fulfil your promise (mappaleppe’, B),
your vow (nazar). You have promised ten chickens if your trip is a success.
Don’t forget this.’ Mariani then rubbed oil into Andi Lacceng’s palms and
said, ‘This coconut oil is grown from a sacred tree; take it and travel well.’
(Field notes, 2001)

It is particularly important, as Mariani stresses above, that Andi Lacceng returns to
give thanks after she has made a successful journey. Rössler (2000) writes further
elsewhere about the importance of fulfilling such promises in neighbouring
Makassar. The above account also notes that the rice required for the blessing is
dyed into four different colours, affirming that four is a significant number in Bugis
South Sulawesi (Pelras, 1996: 201), particularly in the configuration of sulapa’
eppa’ (a square), which is the symbol of perfection in Bugis philosophy (Idrus,
pers. comm. 2008). The account additionally reveals that significant symbolism is
attached to the colours in terms of their representation of natural elements and the

Bissu subject positions 187
human life cycle (Acciaioli, 1990: 214–15, 226; Lathief, 2004: 118). That the rice
and other ritual food can be eaten at the close of the blessing highlights the logic of
the spirits taking the invisible or ethereal (alusu’, B) part or the offering (Acciaioli,
1990: 211).
Blessings for safe travel are frequently requested by people undertaking not only
the pilgrimage to Mecca, but any extended and potentially dangerous journey.
During my main field work period, East Timor’s long struggle for independence
became particularly heated. As a result, many Bugis living in East Timor began
escaping the violence and their Sulawesi-based families sought blessings from
bissu to ensure their safe return:
A woman came to the house tonight and asked Mariani to perform a ceremony
to protect her family living in East Timor. Her family is trying to return to
Sulawesi because the violence is getting really bad there. The woman was told
to come back tomorrow with five goats and 25 chickens, and Mariani will sacrifice these to ensure her family returns safely. The woman has come all the
way from Kendari, on the southeast peninsula of Sulawesi, to get a blessing
from Mariani.
(Field notes, 1999)
In addition to blessing journeys, bissu are asked to restore people’s health. Almost
every day people come to Mariani’s house, frequently after travelling quite some
distance, to seek a cure for a particular illness. Sometimes Mariani gives them medicine (obat), often in the form of sacred water taken from a nearby well. Other times
a blessing from the spirits is sought from an altar (Figure 8.3), which may sometimes be adorned with images of the seventeenth century Bugis hero Arung Palakka
(cf. L. Andaya, 1981). Haji Yamin is also regularly contacted to heal the sick:
If there’s someone who’s sick, bissu can heal them. What happens is that the
bissu will call to the spirit world seeking help in making medicine. The cleverest spirit will descend and possess the body of the bissu. The bissu then knows
how to make the medicine.
(Haji Yamin)
While many people seek help from bissu, some are initially sceptical of the power
of bissu to heal. One middle-aged man, Pak Paha, reveals, ‘I didn’t believe in the
magic of bissu until I was given medicine (mujangka, B) and then I saw the miracle
(keajaiban). I got better.’ Even if some people witness the curing ability of bissu,
they may remain wary, like Ibu Patunru’ reveals for her son:
I believe in the power of bissu to make people better, but my son doesn’t, that’s
why he’s sick. He once let me bring bissu to help him, and they did. He felt
much better [after they gave him a blessing]. But then he didn’t want them to
come again, and so now he’s sick again.
(Ibu Patunru’)

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Bissu subject positions

Figure 8.3 An altar used by bissu for ritual blessings. Photo taken by S. G. Davies.

Bissu subject positions 189
Bissu are also asked to solve marital problems. A young man named Dani once
told me:
If a man wants to find his wife, he comes to Mariani. There was a woman who
ran off once and left her husband. The husband came and asked Mariani for
help, and in three days his wife came crawling back.
(Dani)
Fertility blessings are sought from bissu. If a couple cannot conceive, they may
arrive, usually with their extended family, to seek a blessing from bissu. For a fertility blessing, dewata are awakened with the clashing of cymbals. Bissu then light
incense (dupa), which clears a path for dewata to descend to earth. Bissu additionally light candles to guide dewata. Specific fertility dewata then possess bissu and
this possession allows bissu to confer fertility onto the couple, or frequently just
onto the woman with whom the suspicion of infertility lies. Interesting parallels can
be made with hijra in India who, by severing their phallus, and thus like bissu are
considered to lack a functioning penis, are able to confer their forsaken fertility
upon others (Nanda, 1994: 385).
While male midwives are extremely rare in Indonesia, with the exception of Bali
(Parker, 2001a; van Bemmelen, 1992) and among Lauje of Sulawesi where men
actually have a monopoly over matters of childbirth (Nourse, 1999), some bissu
assist at births. Indeed, in La Galigo narratives bissu are asked to help at royal births
as well as to provide intervention to ensure an heir is conceived. In the past the
blood of bissu was spilt to hasten a birth (Darling, 2004b: 23–4). Bissu Haji
Sungke’ has been involved in many births:
Bissu used to help deliver royal babies. Indeed, I have the role of midwife
(dukun beranak). I’ve done this for 15 years and before that I studied so I could
have the skills. See all these altars (lamolong, B) here? These are for newborn
babies. And above the front door, see, it says: ‘Haji Sungke’, Dukun Beranak.’
I use my connection with dewata to bring babies into the world with success. If
there’s a pregnant woman, she comes to see me for the whole time she is pregnant. If she’s having a difficult birth, I know magic that will turn the baby
around, make it be born flawless (sempurna). I’m called to the woman’s house
when she is ready to give birth and I help deliver the baby. Before, I used to do
it on my own, but now I work with the local health clinic (Puskesmas). See
there, on that altar? See that black doctor’s bag with the writing ‘Dukun Kit,
Puskesmas’? Sometimes if there’s a difficulty with the birth, I can fix it.
There’s no need to call for the doctor. Before, if giving birth (melahirkan anak)
in the palace, bissu were called.
(Haji Sungke’)
Not only do bissu help at the birth of a child, but they continue to assist at the child’s
subsequent life cycle rituals. For instance, bissu play a role in circumcision blessings for girls and boys, as this excerpt from my 2001 field notes suggests:

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Bissu subject positions
I just attended the circumcision of a girl in the village of Bara’ Batu. The circumcision involved the girl’s clitoris being pecked by a hen. Mariani performed a blessing and arranged and blessed the food. Mariani also took charge
of general organization. The evening before the circumcision a night-time
prayer reading and barasanji were conducted and we ate ka’do’ minynya’ (B),
a rice mixture into which an egg is placed. In the same village, Mariani performed a blessing for a woman who is five months pregnant and about to be
married to a man that already has three wives.
(Field notes, 2001)

This narrative mentions barasanji, which is a song of praise based on the life of
Muhammad, and reveals that barasanji has come to take a prominent role in Bugis
blessing (massalama’, B) rituals (cf. Acciaioli, 1990: 213). It is worth noting here
that circumcisions are commonly performed on pre-pubescent girls in the area I
lived in South Sulawesi (see Chapter 5 for further discussion of this topic), although
many of these are more symbolic than circumcisions conducted elsewhere in
Indonesia (cf. Budiharsana et al., 2003; Darwin et al., 2002; Newland, 2006).
Bissu may also be consulted before construction work starts on a new building to
both seek a general blessing for the building and to find out the most auspicious date for
work to begin. Acciaioli (1990: 215) provides further discussion of Bugis house consecrations (maccéra’ bola, B, or massalama’ bola, B). One example of the role bissu
play in blessing construction work comes from the 1970s. At this time bissu activities
often had to be carried out secretly due to the restrictive political environment, but there
were people who believed enough in the importance of bissu blessings to continue
requests. I was told that in 1977 proposals were ratified for work to begin on a lime
quarry near the town of Pangkep. Recognizing the necessity of a bissu blessing, at least
for the appeasement of the local people who would work at the quarry, management
sponsored a bissu ceremony. The highest-ranking bissu were thus approached and
asked to perform a blessing on the proposed quarry site. To guarantee a successful
blessing, bissu slaughtered a large buffalo by severing its head. According to one version of the story, the next morning a woman was found decapitated in the place where
the buffalo was believed to have been slaughtered. Bissu were accused of severing the
woman’s head instead of the buffalo’s and were exiled from the area for six years.
When the bissu eventually returned, all the men who had convicted the bissu were
found dead the next day. While this story highlights the role bissu play in blessing construction work, it also serves as a reminder of the more ominous side of bissu potency.
Of vital importance to any agricultural community is the success of food crops.
It is not surprising, then, that one of the most elaborate bissu ceremonies is performed to guarantee an abundant harvest. Before any rice is planted a ceremony
called mappalili (B) is performed. This blessing used to be spread over 40 days and
nights, but is now usually restricted to just one day. Indeed, Lathief (2004) notes
that many things are conducted on a smaller scale now; this does not necessarily
indicate a decrease in the value of such rituals, though. To conduct mappalili bissu
must seek permission from dewata to remove the sacred plough (bajak) from its
resting place at the Bola Ridié (B, Yellow House), and carry it to the rice fields.

Bissu subject positions 191
Potent dewata are believed to inhabit the plough and when it arrives at the rice
fields, dewata can then bestow a blessing on the area. To find out whether bissu
have been granted permission to move the plough, they must contact the spirit
world and beseech dewata to descend to earth and possess them. Once they are possessed, bissu can relay whether it is permissible to move the plough. To ensure
bissu do not pretend to be possessed (attama’ ni mattékké, B) and attempt to move
the plough without permission – an act that would have catastrophic results for the
entire community as at the very least crops would fail, while at the very worst a natural disaster would destroy all of the community’s inhabitants – bissu must offer
proof to the people requesting the blessing that they are possessed and that they
have received permission to move the plough. There are a number of ways bissu can
prove possession, as a high-ranking Bugis man, Bau Mulyadi, outlines:
In Soppeng [a district in South Sulawesi], bissu walk on fire to prove they’ve
been possessed (kesurupan). They walk over hot coals really slowly, and they
do it in bare feet. They do it so that people will believe they have a connection
with God (Tuhan). Some even eat sharp blades. In Boné, bissu still do this
[walk over hot coals], but when they walk, they walk too quickly. In Sengkang,
they do ma’giri’ to get protection, so if someone fires a bullet they will not die
. . . the bullet will go around them. Don’t you believe me? Well, it’s true! They
do a mantra to call Tuhan and Tuhan will protect them.
(Bau Mulyadi)
While Bau Muliyardi outlines above a number of ways in which bissu prove possession, from my experience ma’giri’ seems to be the most common way. The performance of ma’giri’ is dramatic and suspenseful and this contributes in large part to
the popularity of bissu ceremonies. Ma’giri’ is performed at most blessings because
blessings require bissu to be possessed and people demand proof of this. The following passage from my 1999 field notes recounts a performance of ma’giri’:
I’ve just watched my third ma’giri’ performance. This one was even more
elaborate and intense than the other two. This morning I left with Mariani to go
to a small community about an hour northeast of Pangkep. The community is
requesting a bissu ceremony to bless their rice fields. When we arrived we
were taken into the house of one of the local families. The family had earlier
moved all their furniture out of the large living room, knowing that bissu would
need a lot of space. The floor was made of thin bamboo slats, which meant that
anytime someone walked they bounced. The roof was thatched and that made
the house so much cooler than Mariani’s. I found a spot in the corner to sit and
take notes. Lots of little kids came and sat in front of me and just stared. Every
time I said something to them, they just burst into giggles. Mariani and five
other bissu quickly started setting up the paraphernalia, a task that would take
most of the day. Bales of hay were brought up and arranged in a circle in the
middle of the room. Then all sorts of decorations were made. Work was
stopped at various times throughout the day to eat and drink.
As evening fell, preparations neared completion. Bissu then got dressed in

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Bissu subject positions
their costumes and did their hair and make-up. When this was finished, the six
bissu sat in a circle to the side of the decorated hay bales and began chanting.
They burned copious amounts of incense until they all had tears streaming
down their faces. The chanting became more intense and the music, which
accompanies any bissu ceremony, grew very fast and loud. The bissu chants
called dewata down to earth and encouraged dewata to possess them.
Eventually bissu became possessed, something you can tell when their erratic
behaviour suddenly becomes placid. Bissu then arose and started dancing
around the room in a circle. They took two steps forward, one step back, and
then turned around. Next they started dancing in pairs. Two bissu would face
each other and one bissu would fall backwards, almost to the ground,
while supported by the other bissu whose foot was placed securely over the
falling bissu’s foot. All the bissu then returned to dancing around in a circle and
then they pulled out their kris swords. They began by testing the kris against
their skin, and then they actually started to really try and force the kris into their
skin in circular motions. At the height of the frenzy some bissu even placed their
kris handle down on the floor and levelled all their weight on the tip
trying to make it penetrate their skin. The most common places to attempt insertion are the neck, stomach, palm of the hand, temple and even a closed eye.
Mariani once showed me the stab wounds s/he has received when possessed by
a weak dewata who didn’t make hir impenetrable (kebal). There are smalls scars
on hir neck, stomach (above hir belly button) and palm of hir hand, but s/he said
couldn’t feel the infliction when it occurred because s/he was in a trance.
Not all the bissu performed ma’giri’, two just danced around the room with
their kris. One bissu once told me that s/he doubted hir powers and was too
scared to perform ma’giri’ in case the kris penetrated hir skin and s/he died.
And indeed bissu can suddenly lose their powers, as happened to one bissu
after s/he was involved in a car accident. When s/he next performed ma’giri’
s/he died. If the kris doesn’t penetrate, bissu are considered to be possessed by
a potent dewata who will be able to bestow a good blessing.
The stabbing dance went on for about six minutes, and then the music suddenly stopped, and so too the bissu. Covered in sweat and exhausted, the bissu
walked slowly around the room trying to regain their composure; Mariani had
lost hir head covering and the sarong of another bissu had come undone.
Having proved that they were possessed, it was then time for the blessing to
take place. The bissu sat in a horseshoe formation in front of the hundred or so
people who had squeezed into the house to watch ma’giri’. Mariani surveyed
all of the gifts that had been prepared to appease dewata, and they proved satisfactory. Dewata then spoke through Mariani in Bahasa Bissu and one of the
other bissu translated into Bugis. It was conveyed, in a highly elaborate way,
that the community’s rice fields were now blessed and they would therefore
have a successful harvest. At the end of the blessing, a ritual was performed to
‘lay down the sword’ and return dewata to the heavens. It was then about midnight and we were all invited to eat the ritual food.
(Field notes, 1999)

Bissu subject positions 193

Figure 8.4 Bissu performing the self-stabbing ma’giri’ ritual to prove possession. Photo
taken by S. G. Davies.

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Bissu subject positions

Figure 8.5 Bissu performing the self-stabbing ma’giri’ ritual to prove possession. Photo
taken by S. G. Davies.

Bissu subject positions 195

Figure 8.6 Bissu performing the self-stabbing ma’giri’ ritual to prove possession. Photo
taken by S. G. Davies.

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Bissu subject positions

Figure 8.7 A bissu rests after having performed ma’giri’. Photo taken by S. G. Davies.

Bissu subject positions 197
This excerpt details the process of performing ma’giri’ (Figures 8.4, 8.5, 8.6, 8.7).
It is this rite that has to be performed in order for bissu to convince people they have
gained permission from dewata to move the sacred plough from its resting place at
the Bola Ridié. Having offered proof that they have indeed gained permission,
bissu are then able to lower the plough and carry it to the rice fields. On its journey,
hundreds of people join in the procession. When it finally reaches the rice fields, the
plough is lowered into the irrigation water and given a ritual bathing by bissu. Not
only are the rice fields blessed, but the sacred plough, which symbolizes a plentiful
harvest, is also cleansed. On the return to the Bola Ridié people invariably line the
streets and throw water over the plough and all the people accompanying it. A successful growing season is thus assured.
Before harvesting the rice, another ceremony must be performed to guarantee
abundant yields. The ceremony is called matuntédong (B). Matuntédong means to
grant a wish by killing a buffalo (tédong, B). In order for the ceremony to be successful, bissu make the buffalo ‘talk’, which the buffalo does by facing the most
favourable direction (i.e. north, south, east or west). The buffalo is then sacrificed
facing that direction. In the past, the royal courts would have sponsored such ceremonies, but nowadays the bupati’s office or the local village head (kepala desa)
commissions the larger ones and individuals pay for the smaller ceremonies.
As this section shows bissu continue to undertake numerous roles in contemporary society. Yet while bissu continue to receive patronage, not all segments of
Indonesia view bissu, and their rituals, in positive terms. In the next section, I examine how bissu are culturally conceptualized in respect to an important element in
Indonesian society, Islam.

Bissu and Islam
The adoption of Islam in South Sulawesi in the early 1600s posed a number of
dilemmas for bissu and the belief system that surrounded them (Peletz, 2006: 316).
For instance, the epic La Galigo, which legitimized the central role of bissu within
the Bugis noble courts, was devalued as a source of authority and bissu claims of
divine status, sanctified within La Galigo, were thus challenged. In the last few
decades in particular, Islam has provided a basis and justification for anti-bissu sentiment. Heather Sutherland (pers. comm. 2000) comments that there was a great
deal of resentment towards bissu when Islamic support reached a peak in the area in
the 1950s and 1960s. Indeed, in the 1960s, Ansor, an Islamic militia group, targeted
and killed many bissu (Wendy Miller, pers. comm. 2000). This time period also
witnessed the rising influence of the staunchly Islamic Kahar Muzakkar movement
(Harvey, 1978), which was linked to the Darul Islam separatist rebellion that
declared South Sulawesi an Islamic state. Kahar Muzakar authorized the violent
persecution of bissu and other elements of society deemed against Islam, such as
Communists (Boellstorff, 2005b: 39; Lathief, 2003, 2004: 79–82). In 1966,
Operasi Toba (Operation Repent) was initiated to stop practices considered unIslamic and many bissu ceremonies, customs and activities were forcibly stopped
and sacred bissu instruments were burnt or thrown into the ocean. Sutherland (pers.

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Bissu subject positions

comm. 2000) notes that at this time gangs of men surrounded bissu in the street and
forcibly shaved their heads. Other bissu were tortured and murdered. Bissu Haji
Mappaganti remembers this happening and told me that bissu were generally
offered two alternatives: death or leave bissu life and start acting like men. As a
warning to heed this threat seriously, the bissu leader of Boné, Sanro Makgangke,
was decapitated and hir head publicly displayed. Mariani said that s/he, along with
other surviving bissu, then fled to the hills.
Even in the contemporary environment, where bissu services are openly
requested, Islamic doctrine is used to denigrate bissu practices. Drawing on the
Qur’an, one Islamic ulama I spoke with used the terms ‘accursed’ (terkutuk) and
‘shameful’ (aib) to describe bissu activities. For other Muslims, bissu practices are
negatively considered animistic (animisme). Another informant, Pak Sultan,
revealed:
In Islam, there’s no other deity (dewata), there’s only Allah and the prophet
Muhammad. It’s a sin (musyrik) to believe in anything other than the one true
God.
(Pak Sultan)
Yet while Pelras notes that Bugis consider themselves, and are considered to
be, ‘among the most Islamized of Indonesian peoples,’ he continues by noting
that:
no one who has prolonged contact with the various Bugis communities in
South Sulawesi could fail to notice, in both rural and urban, aristocratic and
popular milieux, the astonishing survival of elements of pre-Islamic religion,
manifested in popular rituals, beliefs in pre-Islamic myths, the worshipping of
regalia and sacred places, and the active role still played by a number of the
pagan transvestite priests, the bissu – all of which are radically incompatible
with Islam.
(1996: 187–8)
While bissu and many of the ceremonies they conduct may indeed be incompatible
with some interpretations of Islam, as the previous sections show bissu identify as
Muslim and bissu blessings are requested by devout Muslims. What dynamics are
at play, then, to enable bissu to operate within a Muslim community?
One factor often cited for why bissu are able to conduct their practices overtly
within Bugis society is the generally tolerant attitude of the average person to diversity in lifestyle and belief practices. For instance, a middle-aged man named Andi
Mansur believes that people are entitled to their own beliefs:
I don’t believe in the tradition of bissu, but who am I to forbid people their
beliefs? It would be a shame if they were forgotten. Certainly, a lot of people
believe, but I don’t. I pray to Tuhan (God/Allah), not to any dewata.
(Andi Mansur)

Bissu subject positions 199
Indeed Islam can be framed as a religion that has a comparatively tolerant attitude
towards alternative belief practices. Some hijra in India, for example, identify as
Muslims but dedicate their lives to the Hindu goddess Bedhajra (Reddy, 2005).
Hijra thus celebrate a pluralistic form of religion combining elements of Islam and
Hinduism (Reddy, 2005: 110). Such tolerance may enable bissu to find a place
to carry out their activities within Islam more easily than they could in another
religion.
Sentiments of tolerance also allow some individuals to express scepticism
towards bissu practices while not discounting the power of such practices entirely:
Not everyone believes in the magic of bissu. My sister doesn’t, and that’s why
she’s sick. I went and saw her when she first got sick and prayed for her, and
she thanked me because she felt better. But in truth, as for me, I don’t know
how much I believe [in the power of bissu], but I am too afraid not to believe at
all. So I pray to Allah, but I am still open to other possibilities.
(Puang Sulai)
However, as the opening paragraphs to this section showed, Islam is not
infinitely tolerant and as such many people remarked that when Islam came to
Sulawesi traditional beliefs and bissu practices that were specifically in contradiction to Islam had to be abolished. For instance, Andi Mankgo’, an adat expert,
reveals:
Lots of things were thrown away (terbuang) when Islam came. I would be
ashamed (malu) to learn about things and to practise things which are forbidden (dilarang) [by Islam] . . . and the people here don’t want to see ceremonies
that are forbidden by Islam. We used to eat field mice (tikus), you know, but
since Islam came, we don’t. People used to burn themselves, but this is a sin.
We also used to have lots of little temples, like the one we just saw, but that
isn’t right with Islam, so we got rid of that.
(Andi Mankgo’)
Andi Sangkala, also an adat expert, mentions an additional practice that was
abolished:
Allah is everywhere. Allah doesn’t just live in the mosque (mesjid) or church,
Allah lives everywhere. But you can’t pray just anywhere. For instance, if a
farmer wanted a good harvest and he went and prayed to a tree, that would be
considered worshipping an idol (berhalah, idolatrous). Maybe they used to do
that, but now we are Muslim so you can’t pray to a tree.
(Andi Sangkala)
In more specific reference to bissu practices, bissu Haji Yamin comments that s/he
no longer performs ma’giri’ because inflicting injury on yourself is arrogant, an
assertion stemming from the notion that self-harm is a sin in Islam:

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I no longer perform ma’giri’ because I think doing anything that causes
injury to yourself is arrogant (takabur). I don’t perform it, but many of my
protégés (anak buah) still have to perform it, and I arrange for them to
perform it.
(Haji Yamin)

Beliefs and practices that were not strictly against Islam were not necessarily abolished – rather, they were modified. This process of modification means that for Haji
Alang, an elderly Bugis man, the two systems are compatible:
There’s no contradiction (kontradiksi) with Islam. We have changed bissu
beliefs and customs to fit with Islam. Islam is the road to the spirit (roh).
(Haji Alang)
One of the modifications that took place was the re-conceptualization of God, as
Andi Galib, an elderly Bugis man, explains:
When Islam came, well, they [Muslims] worshipped the same God (Tuhan) as
us, but Tuhan had a different name . . . that name was Allah. Therefore, our
ancestors changed the name of the original Bugis god [who was called
Patoto’é]. Patoto’é thus became known as Allah. But Patoto’é didn’t become
Allah straight away. Next Patoto’é was called Dewata Séuwaé, then Séuwaé
To Lotang. Tuhan said there would be three phases of acquaintance until
finally we reached Islam. The first was Patoto’é – this was the name of the religion before Islam entered [Sulawesi] . . . it was animism (animisme) . . . and
they used Bahasa Bissu, which is like the language of Sanskrit (Sanskerta), but
it changed. Like in the Surah Hud (Prophet Hud, the eleventh chapter of the
Qur’an), there is no God but Allah, and Allah has no mother or father, no children and Allah’s not a woman or a man. Batara Guru brought this religion to
earth, and Batara Guru was sent by Patoto’é.
(Andi Galib)
While this narrative is slightly confusing, Andi Galib notes that pre-Islamic beliefs
are compatible with Islam because the pre-Islamic God was Allah, just known by a
different name. Indeed, Lathief (2004) reveals that in some bissu ceremonies
Allah’s name is invoked in ways that incorporate Bugis influence, such as Puang
Allataala Mua Sewaé. The continuity of belief in the same God, albeit with a changing name, legitimates for Andi Galib earlier belief systems in which bissu are intimately bound (cf. Kennedy, 1993: 8).
A further reason for the endurance of bissu practices is the additional reconceptualization of pre-Islamic deities (dewata) as Allah’s helpers:
These two belief systems [Islamic and pre-Islamic] can live together . . .
dewata are Allah’s helpers. You see, Allah can’t possibly be bothered with all
our little problems, right. Therefore s/he has helpers. It’s like parliament, Allah

Bissu subject positions 201
is the President (Presiden), and the dewata are the executors (pelaksana). So
there are helpers like Dewa Angin (Wind Deity), Dewa Laut (Ocean Deity),
and Dewi Sri (Rice Deity).
(Haji Baco’)
To ensure dewata know they are subservient to Allah, bissu start rituals with a chant
recognizing the pre-eminence of Allah, which commoner sanro healers in Sulawesi
also do (Acciaioli, 1990: 214–17). Mariani asserts this order of supremacy in the
chant below:
Forgive me [dewata], for I am already a Muslim. Forgive me, for I worship
God (maafkan saya beribadah kepada Tuhan). Allah is the one and only true
God. Dewata, you also must bow down before Allah. And therefore, I ask for
your help in reaching Allah. I can’t reach Allah without your help. I ask for
your help, oh spirits (roh-roh), so that I may reach Allah.
(Mariani)
Mariani starts this chant by affirming that s/he is Muslim. The proper positioning of
practitioners is a key way in which minority ritual practices can continue to be
observed. Bacigalupo (2004b), for instance, found that in Mexico machi shamans
were granted ritual space by being reconstructed in a sense as celibate Catholic
priests. Acknowledgement of Allah further allows bissu practices to be positioned
under the umbrella of Islam, linking such practice with a nationally recognized
monotheistic religion, which is important in a nation where every citizen must officially adhere to one of only six legitimate religions. In then asking dewata for assistance to reach Allah, Mariani affirms the hierarchical connection between bissu,
dewata and Allah.
There are a number of reasons why dewata are asked to be intercessors between
bissu and Allah. One reason is that Allah is too busy to respond to every trifling
request:
If you want to go to Mecca, then you need to make sure it’s o.k. with Allah. But
imagine if everyone asked Allah? So we go to bissu and they ask dewata who
ask Allah, and then we are blessed.
(Ibu Sur, middle-aged woman)
Yet dewata, or spirits (roh-roh) as some people refer to them, are also contacted in
their own right because they specialize in specific ailments:
Bissu don’t contact Allah directly. They contact the roh-roh. The roh-roh are
often dead people, usually a dead bissu. Bissu call a specific roh for a specific
ceremony . . . like a traditional doctor (dukun) from the past is called to heal a
sick baby. They call a bissu from the past, but a bissu who was a dukun. They
can’t make a wrong call because there is only one path.
(Andi Ali, middle-aged man)

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The above narratives suggest that in many ways bissu beliefs and practices have
become part of a single syncretic system with Islam. I follow here Stewart’s (1999:
58) broad definition of syncretism as the combination of elements from two or more
different religious traditions within a specified frame. There is a large corpus of
critical literature on the syncretization of Islam with other belief structures
(Acciaioli, 1990; Beatty, 1999; Magowan and Gordon, 2001; Nash, 1965; Pelras,
1985; Spiro, 1967). For Lathief (2004), the melding of Islamic thinking with older
Bugis beliefs has resulted in syncretism (sinkretisme) in the form of Islamic mysticism (tasawuf). Puang Bachri, a well-educated man, further suggests that the melding of Islam and bissu practices has created something new:
It’s not really one or the other. It’s a new form, bissu plus Islam. They take adat
and mix it with Islam and then it’s something new. But if you say they [bissu]
aren’t Muslims, they will kill you. But the question is, how much are they
Muslim? Look at the symbols. Why do they use red sugar? What does that
mean? Is that Islam?
(Puang Bachri)
In positing that a new form is created, Puang Bachri questions the extent to which
bissu are Muslim. His comments underscore the importance some people place on
adhering completely to one of the state-recognized religions and not adulterating it
with perceived outside elements. While syncretism is a useful lens through with to
view the melding of Islam with bissu beliefs and practices, there are some difficulties associated with deploying this concept.
For Stewart (1999: 56), a key problem with using the trope of syncretism lies in
determining whether two different belief traditions have indeed mixed, and therefore become syncretic, or if they have simply remained standing juxtaposed. A further difficulty for Stewart (1999: 56) in labelling a particular belief system syncretic
is the need to distinguish actors’ expressed acknowledgements of mixture from the
opinions and perceptions of observers. Taking these critiques into consideration, it
seems that Islam and bissu beliefs and practices may not be syncretic but rather they
may constitute a case of two systems standing juxtaposed. For instance, it is possible
to tease out the respective Islamic and bissu components of certain bissu rituals.
Furthermore, actors can often articulate separate bissu and Islamic influences within
a certain ritual, suggesting that the two systems have melded but not fused.
In her work on Zen in Brazil, Rocha (2006) argues against the use of syncretism
in part because the term conveys the image of two clear systems overlaid.
Rocha (2006: 18) thus prefers to use creolization in her work because this term
does not suggest a seamless combination or a synthesis of two or more forms, but
rather a field of energy that results not in a product but in a process of interaction
and change. The trope of creolization is therefore a useful way of viewing the interactions between Islam and bissu beliefs and practices as it captures the presence of
fissures, gaps and contradictions that are evident in the rituals outlined above.
For some people in Bugis South Sulawesi, though, neither syncretism nor creolization are appropriate concepts because any remaining vestiges of bissu beliefs

Bissu subject positions 203
and practices that have not been Islamized have become a form of traditional adat
custom. Indeed, Acciaioli (pers. comm. 2003) notes that for the Dutch colonial
government and missionaries, who were involved in the project of conversion, the
division between religion and adat was crucial. We see below that for Haji Yamin
it is possible to believe in both Islam and adat:
These are all the same God [i.e. pre-Islamic gods and Allah]. But they are
called different names because of changes in the culture. We believe in computers, in [electric] fans, in cars, so you know, our belief system is changing,
but we can’t forget the stories that have created our past. We don’t think in
terms of it’s either this or it’s that. This way we can have Islam and believe in
it, and still believe in adat.
(Haji Yamin)
Pak Paha, the man now convinced of bissu magic, further articulates the distinction
between religion and adat:
Before Islam, adat and religion were the same thing. When Islam came, adat
and religion became separate things. So that’s how there’s still bissu because
they are a part of adat, not a part of religion. You know the saying, right?
Makassar people hold tight to religion. Bugis people hold tight to adat (Orang
Makassar kuat agama. Orang Bugis kuat adat).
(Pak Paha)
The encasement of bissu beliefs and practices in the arena of adat is additionally
reinforced through the attitudes of some members of the younger generation. For
instance, at a bissu ceremony in 1999, Lathief (2004: 93) notes that bissu were
respected by the older generation but the younger generation thought such activities were merely a strange form of entertainment. Such sentiments reflect the prediction made by Claire Holt (1939: 35) that by 1950 bissu would become mere
performers, that they would turn ‘from priests into clowns.’ Indeed some young
people are exhorting the older generation to refrain from mixing Islam with preIslamic beliefs. In a parallel way in Java, Smith-Hefner (2007: 409) remarks that
many young women from nominal Islamic family backgrounds are objecting to
their parents’ continuing performance of Javanist traditions.
There are vibrant interactions between Islam and bissu practices and beliefs in
Bugis South Sulawesi. While Islam has been used to propel anti-bissu sentiment, in
other ways the continual modification of bissu activities has enabled the two systems to co-exist, resulting in a dynamic positioning of bissu in contemporary society, as the next section explores.

Positioning bissu
There is a good deal of evidence to suggest that a steady decline in the prestige
awarded to bissu took place from the seventeenth century until relatively recently.

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For instance, Blackwood (2006) argues that from 1600 onwards the gendered cosmologies containing masculine and feminine principles were supplanted by a new
masculine gender mythology, found in Islam and Christianity, in which ritual transvestism made little sense, particularly for females. Yet Blackwood (2006: 326)
argues that it was ‘neither Islam nor a generalized modernity that led to the twentieth-century delegitimization of male bissu, since these processes were already in
place for several centuries before bissu’s loss of status.’ Rather, she asserts that a
‘disciplining of minds by powerful new “mythologies” of gender supported by
state and religious structures’ resulted in a decreased role for such subjects.
Peletz (2006) further examines reasons for the delegitimization of ritual transgenderism in the broader Southeast Asia context. Reasons he provides include state
centralization, nationalism and modern discourses, economic progress and the
market economy, technological advances and higher education. Specifically in the
case of Bugis South Sulawesi, Peletz notes that the coming of Islam, Dutch colonial
rule, the abolishment of noble courts, and the modernizing of political administrations contributed to the delegitimization of bissu. For instance, in 1957 the Bugis
royal courts, which were the primary source of bissu support, were formally disbanded (although informally persisting for certain functions) and noble-dominated
kingdoms lost their power as they were replaced by a centralized national government. Then from the 1980s, state intervention moved to specifically promote
nationally sanctioned Bugis culture at the expense of what were deemed undesirable representations, such as bissu (Acciaioli, 1985). Peletz (2006: 316) concludes
that, ‘This is not to suggest that bissu, transgender, and same-sex sexuality have
completely disappeared from South Sulawesi, but all such phenomena have been
delegitimized and otherwise radically transformed.’ In fact, for Lathief (2004), the
current generation will be the last generation of people to inherit the bissu tradition.
Boellstorff (2006a) remarks, though, that it is was not just an anti-modern narrative of disenchantment within state policies, or the state being the foremost instigator and employer of violence, which decreased the role of subject positions such as
bissu. Rather, everyday people may no longer have required such services, and
individuals may have seen bissu practices as being backwards and anti-Islamic.
Indeed, Lathief (2004: 82) notes that a section of Bugis society now thinks bissu
mostly perform a decorative function and that the quality of bissu candidates is
decreasing day by day. In his work with dukun tenung (sorcerers) in Java, Herriman
(2007) similarly disputes the level of power attributed to the Indonesian government in perpetuating contemporary violence, showing that individuals actually
played a major instigative role.
While there is certainly truth in these observations about the delegitimization of
bissu, the future will not necessarily follow such a trajectory. As this chapter shows,
bissu are frequently being called upon to bestow blessings no longer just for the
nobility but for a wide array of people. Bissu activities are also finding new forms
of legitimacy through cultural performances. Indeed Manalansan reveals that interesting dynamics are arising around the ways in which contemporary Southeast
Asian transgendered ritual specialists are being revised and recovered in recent
queer politics and cultural productions. For instance, Manalansan (2006: 330)

Bissu subject positions 205
notes that while a government may be seen as a violent barrier to trans subjecthood,
such as Marcos’ government in the Philippines, at the same time a government may
utilize gender-insubordinate subjects and sexually queer individuals either as evidence of their ‘country’s modernity (e.g. we have gays like in US), or as spectacle
to provide relief and to displace or deflect the violent realities of totalitarian
rule.’ As such, rather than being merely objects of state discipline and violence,
Manalansan (2006: 330) argues that ‘transgendered subjects have been politically
deployed to exemplify modernity, leisure, opulence, and cosmopolitanism.’
In many ways, bissu have been used politically to serve a variety of ends. The fall
of Suharto’s New Order government in 1998 ushered in a period of revitalization of
imagined traditional customs throughout Indonesia. Local government in South
Sulawesi consequently seized upon bissu as a way of promoting an assumed glorious and unique Bugis past. An examination of the extent to which bissu practices
have thus become art prescribed, or at least promoted, by government officials
would yield interesting results (cf. Acciaioli, 1985). Bissu themselves have also
actively taken advantage of opportunities afforded them in the post-Suharto era.
As a result of government persuasion, positive social reception and bissu initiative, bissu have engaged in extensive public activities in the last few years. Bissu
have been to Bali and Java a number of times to perform at adat festivals, and to
Jakarta as part of a tourist promotion for South Sulawesi (Lathief, 2004: 89). A
select group of bissu travelled to Japan in September 2002, to participate in an international traditional customs festival. In 2006, six bissu flew to Paris to participate
in the Festival de l’Imaginaire (Hamonic, 2008). Foreign academics and the
Governor of South Sulawesi were officially welcomed to the 2002 La Galigo
International Conference by bissu. Bissu performed at the 2006 Miss Waria
Indonesia pageant (Kortschak, 2007). Bissu have also been the focus of a number
of documentaries and stage plays (Grauer, 2004a; National Geographic, 2008;
Nowra, 1999; Tomaszewski et al., 2001; Wilson, 2004). Indeed Robert Wilson’s
play I La Galigo, which featured bissu, has received no less than 25 international
reviews (e.g. Cohen, 2005; Darling, 2004a; Hamonic, 2004; Lindsay, 2007;
Macknight, 2006; Quint, 2006; Smith, 2004).
In light of these various engagements it is understandable that at my suggestion
that bissu traditions might be fading away, Haji Baco’ retorted, ‘Bissu, a dying tradition? I think not!’ Mariani responded to the same suggestion by boasting that the
village of Taraweang has genealogical records of 40 generations of bissu now that
s/he has taken an aspiring bissu from there under hir guidance. Such engagements
and activities suggest that the position of bissu will continue to be a vibrant part of
Bugis society.
* * * *
Embodiment of male and female, mortal and deity enables bissu to contact the spirit
world and become possessed by various deities. Once possessed, bissu are able to
bestow blessings for an assortment of requests, ranging from ensuring safe travel
through to granting fertility. While by necessity bissu must be innately destined
to become bissu (e.g. they must embody male and female elements), only after

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Bissu subject positions

successfully undertaking numerous rites of passage is a bissu candidate recognized
as a fully-fledged bissu. Islam has been used to denigrate bissu beliefs and practices, and for some devout Muslims bissu performances can only be accommodated
as an aesthetic display of adat. In other instances, though, the altering or abolishment of certain bissu practices and beliefs has enabled both belief systems to coexist. While in many respects the prestige awarded to bissu has decreased in the last
few centuries, current bissu inclusion in a variety of new media and cultural and
international events may ensure a dynamic future for bissu.

9

Conclusion

This book has progressively built a picture of gender in Indonesia, exploring meanings of the concept and specifically asking what constitutes gender in this cultural
milieu. Acknowledging that gender is never just about ‘gender’, the book revealed
various conceptualizations of the concept ranging from gender being grounded in
biology, to gender being performative, to gender being shaped by sexuality, to gender being constituted by all of these factors and more. While in many respects these
components can be reverted to essentially non-gender attributes, collectively such
components comprise a concept that can be labelled gender. Indeed, as Peter
Jackson (pers. comm. 2003) noted in an early review of this work, developing a
framework for conceptualizing gender in Indonesia is a difficult undertaking
because there is no ‘cultural entity’ of gender but rather a collection of factors that
take on the appearance of something like ‘gender’ when viewed from a particular
perspective. In many ways, this book shows what feminist and queer theorists have
long been arguing: gender cannot be conceptualized as one variable among others,
instead gender is fundamental, not subordinate or corollary, to any social formation.
Specific ethnographic data informing this book have been drawn from Bugis
South Sulawesi. While the book has therefore not taken advantage of employing
multi-sited ethnography (Marcus, 1995), it has discussed multiple genders, which
Boellstorff (2007a: 212) posits may represent a kind of multi-sited ethnography
and point towards new possibilities for comparison. Taking Bugis South Sulawesi
as its contextual reference point, though, potentially opens the way for critiques of
ethnolocality, a term Boellstorff (2002) coined to indicate the conflation of locality
and ethnicity and the subsequent downplaying of national and global scales. As
Johnson argues, it is:
no longer either valid to treat the various forms and formulations of gender and
sexuality as isolated or self-perpetuating islands of desire. Rather, they unfold
within discourses which cross national boundaries and borders, even as they
create and reproduce divergent ethnic and cultural classifications.
(1997: 13–14)
This book has therefore drawn on various spatial scales to illustrate how transnational and international processes produce particular kinds of gendered experiences

208

Conclusion

and enactments. Engaging divergent spatial scales has additionally facilitated
larger conclusions to be extended from the book’s ethnographic base.
One of the key debates this book has grabbled with concerns the possible relationships between gender, sex and sexuality. In certain respects, the book supports
Heyes (2003) in calling into question the very separability and individual meaningfulness of these concepts. Yet while numerous studies of Southeast Asia,
including this one, demonstrate the co-constitutive relationships between gender,
sex and sexuality, there are potential dangers in uncritically viewing these concepts
as inseparable. For instance, Boellstorff (2007a: 216) rightly asserts that theoretically collapsing sexuality into gender may impoverish our ability to make sense of
queer Southeast Asians. As such, sexuality should be considered an important element in its own right. As Boellstorff (2005b: 91–2) and Marcus (2005: 210) both
point out, homosexuality refers to the sameness of gender or sex, not the sameness
of age or race, and this marks the significance of sexuality. But rather than claiming
the supremacy of sexuality over gender, field work data in this book suggest that
sexuality informs gender. For some calalai and calabai, sexuality directly influences behaviour, while for others the reverse occurs. Conversely, for gay and lesbi
Indonesians, sexuality does not necessarily impact their gender and Boellstorff
(2005b) shows that many gay men in Indonesia marry women and compartmentalize their lives into a normal world and a gay world. In such circumstances, samesex desire does not produce a culturally recognized social identity. Theorizing
sexuality discretely thus merits attention, which it receives in this book, yet for
most subjects referenced here, sexuality informs, rather than sits alongside, gender.
Stein (2004) affirms that humans are always classifying things, an obsession
which marks our participation in ‘thought communities’ and that prompts us to
carve up reality. Yet as Halberstam (1998: 27) ponders, ‘The human potential for
incredibly precise classifications has been demonstrated in multiple arenas; why
then do we settle for a paucity of classifications when it comes to gender?’ This
dearth of classifications makes it difficult in some respects to theoretically conceptualize gender systems that do not adhere to a binary structure, or subject positions
that do not conform to normative models (cf. Eves, 2004: 483; Rubin, 1992: 468).
Another debate into which this book has thus waded concerns notions of multiple
genders. Through a contextualized view of gender as culturally inscribed, globally
located and historically indexed, the book has shown that gender in Indonesia is
constituted by a variety of factors, such as sexuality, biology and sense of self.
Various coalescences of these factors produce multiple gendered subject positions.
For Schleifer (2006), while all people negotiate gender, sex and sexuality, trans
individuals traverse such terrain in particular ways. Such particularities lead for
Schleifer (2006: 61) to questions ‘over whether transgenderism reinforces an
essentialist, deterministic relationship between sex and gender and whether it
strengthens an inviolable opposition between males and females and men and
women.’ Indeed, for some commentators, trans narratives illustrate precisely the
durability and permeability of distinctions between femininity and masculinity,
female and male, heterosexual and homosexual (Schleifer, 2006). For others, trans
subjects are disruptive of essentialist or deterministic concepts of sex and gender, a

Conclusion 209
view that emphasizes human agency in the production and recreation of systems of
power and knowledge (Schleifer, 2006: 61). A dilemma that emerges, then, is
whether particular gendered subject positions reinforce and reproduce, or resist and
destabilize, dominant gender norms.
Much of the field work data in this book shows that trans individuals concomitantly strengthen and disrupt gender binaries. Yet rather than attempt to solve this
inherent paradox, or theoretically move beyond an analysis of the persistence or
otherwise of gender binaries, it proved more productive to reframe the approach.
As Boellstorff asserts, the:
most effective approach seems not to be deconstruction (since the binarisms
keep reappearing), but disontologization; that is, understanding the binarisms
not as fundamental states of the universe but as frameworks of coincidence,
immanent to the field of analysis and thus the field of critique as well.
(2007c: 217)
The approach taken here has been to explore how subjects traverse and negotiate
gendered norms, revealing the assertion of various degrees of agency. Such
negotiations, with attendant agency, are though embedded in a context of social
regulations that place discursive limits on an individual’s self transformations.
Revealing these various and multilayered negotiations allows appreciation to be
given to gendered disruptions that neither reinforce nor destabilize gender binaries,
disruptions seen elsewhere in Burgess’ (2005) feminine stubble, Rupp and
Taylor’s (2003: 5) analysis of drag queenness being ‘a gender category outside
femininity or masculinity,’ and Sinnott’s (2004: 207) positing of tom and dee subject positions as ‘creative hybrids.’ This book has shown the ways in which, in the
production of particular gendered selves, trans subjects in Indonesia rework
the gendered discourses on which they nevertheless rely for their discursive coherence (cf. Boellstorff, 2007c: 234; Heyes, 2003).
In further illuminating gender in the archipelago the book has undertaken an
analysis of the historical and perceived past in part because, as Grewal and Kaplan
(2001) affirm, historical concepts of gender provide a legacy to the production of
new forms of sexual subject positions. While historical transformations can be
damaging for some subjects, within emerging new disciplinary regimes such transformations can also be productive of new sexual and gender hegemonies (Sinnott,
2006: 332). As not all subject positions therefore have the same investments in the
past, the book was careful not to legitimate contemporary subject positions only
through past linkages. Rather the book drew on the past to contextualize contemporary gendered assertions and reveal ways in which the past is deployed in the
present.
This book also examined gender ideals in contemporary Indonesia. While not
everyone adheres to dominant expectations all of the time, the strength of heteronormative models creates an environment where any transgression is clearly visible and thus a possible target of regulation. A fruitful way of investigating
heteronormativity is through queer theory, although as Valocchi (2005: 762) notes,

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Conclusion

for the most part queer theory has limited itself to addressing how the homosexual/heterosexual binary is a regulatory regime affecting only homosexual identity,
culture and politics. Ironically, by ignoring heterosexuality the latter maintains its
status as the universal, normal, homogeneous and predictable position (Marcus,
2005: 213; see also Parker, 2008b). Yet by expanding the range of visible, plausible and liveable genders and sexualities, Marcus (2005: 200) highlights that ‘queer
studies expands the meanings of woman and man’ (cf. Bettie, 2003). This book has
thus extended a queer analysis to show how heterosexuality is constructed and the
concomitant instabilities and incoherencies associated with normative gender formation. The book’s focus on heteronormativity additionally provides a contextual
base to appreciate the setting in which non-normative subjects in Indonesia develop
gendered selves.
Another lens through which gender in Indonesia was viewed in this book was
Islam. While the frequent conflation of Indonesia with a militant and radical form
of Islam in the foreign media gives the impression that the nation as a whole is intolerant of not only gender diversity but also of democratic principals, a survey of 940
Muslim educators found that 85.9 per cent agreed that democracy is the best form
of government for Indonesia (Hefner, 2000). However, this belief in democracy,
with attendant ideas of human rights, co-exists for respondents with an almost
equally strong commitment to sharia law.
Such ostensible paradoxes are found in many facets of Indonesian society. For
instance, Dédé Oetomo (2006), who set up Indonesia’s first homosexual organization, Lambda Indonesia, in the early 1980s, notes that in the current post-Suharto
era individuals and communities are asserting that groups such as bissu have a legitimate place in Indonesia. Yet while there has been increasing recognition and
involvement of transgender, lesbian and gay organizations in civil society, Oetomo
(2006: 330) notes that there is also evidence of a more conservative side of society,
primarily in the form of hard-line Muslim groups who oppose gender and sexual
variance. Peletz (2006: 323) similarly remarks that the presence of the SalafiWahhabi tradition of Islam, Muslim paramilitary groups and heightened militarization of Indonesia are all sources of concern for the short-term future of
transgendering and perhaps for pluralistic sensibilities of all kinds.
The passing by Indonesia’s parliament of a bill banning pornography may bring
about restrictions on gendered enactments. Driven by hard-line Islamist parties, the
version of the bill that eventually passed on 30 October 2008 become Law No. 44
of 2008 on Pornography. Article One of the law asserts that pornography includes
‘movements of the body’ and ‘performances in public’ that contain ‘obscenity or
sexual exploitation that violates the moral norms of society’ (Pausacker, 2008).
Violators of the law face up to 15 years in prison or fines of up to Rp7.5 billion
(US$7.5 million) (Pausacker, 2008). Interpretations of the vaguely phrased law,
and the fact that ordinary people are encouraged to report infringements, may curtail not just in particular calabai actions but gendered displays throughout
Indonesia.
As this book has shown, though, while Islam is used to persecute non-normative
subjects, Islam is also called upon to support and justify gender variance. In many

Conclusion 211
respects, Ricklefs’ perspective on Islam in the archipelago is heartening. Ricklefs
(2004: 9) sees the influence of Islam in generally positive terms and suggests that in
Indonesia, a state with ‘weak rule of law, widespread criminality, low levels of
administrative competence, endemic corruption and a significant presence of
extremist, terrorist groups,’ Islam may be the ‘principle “social glue” that keeps
society together, peaceful and governable, and perhaps makes it more moral, more
honest and more just.’ While there are significant ‘voices of unreason and intolerance’ in Indonesia, for Ricklefs the:
forces of tolerant, liberal, pluralistic Islam are strongly institutionalized, well
led, the source of some of the most progressive thinking in the Islamic world,
able to operate free of official repression and widely supported by the population, and have been strengthened by the extremists’ use of violence – which has
driven the populace at large and especially the middle class away from extremist views.
(2004: 8–9)
Although a great deal of resentment and prejudice is exhibited towards queer subjects, Ricklefs’ perspective on the influence of Islam is encouraging in respect to
general tolerance and support for gender variance in Indonesia.
The last three chapters of this book respectively looked at how calalai, calabai
and bissu experience notions of gender in Indonesia. The use of an anthropological
approach enabled the grounding of these subject positions within an analytic
framework attentive to lived engagements. Themes that ran across these chapters
included authenticity, borrowing, performance, representation and appropriation,
all topics drawn out in reviews of Robert Wilson’s stage play I La Galigo, which
premiered in Singapore in 2004. The scattered manuscripts comprising the epic La
Galigo, on which Wilson drew for the production, collectively tell of the mythical
origins of Bugis people. While receiving much critical acclaim, the production also
met with disapproval and opposition (Quint, 2006: 335). Indonesian embassy personnel abroad felt sidelined as they were not ‘formally contacted to facilitate the
tour as a “cultural mission” from Indonesia’ (Cohen, 2005: 145). Indonesia’s
Intellectual Property Society questioned the legality of the production as
Indonesian copyright law dictates that reproductions of cultural material outside
Indonesia require official state permission (Cohen, 2005: 145); although, as Pelras
(1979) reveals, copyright and ownership are not necessarily concepts compatible
with La Galigo material. Furthermore, some individuals from Sulawesi complained they were not properly consulted or were underpaid for their efforts. As a
way of closing this book, in what follows I draw on reviews of and responses to I La
Galigo and juxtapose attendant themes with a wider analysis of queer subject positions in Indonesia.
Some of the key themes in reviews of the production concerned authenticity, cultural borrowing, performance and whether the audience was rewarded with an
unadulterated insight into Bugis heritage. For Cohen (2005), the production
achieved a feeling of genuineness in large part by bravely refusing to exploit the

212

Conclusion

theatrical appeal of seeing the leader of the bissu community, Puang Matoa Saidi,
perform actual bissu rites. Rather, Puang Matoa Saidi sat impassively on stage and
in so doing played ‘a crucial role in making I La Galigo a more than profane production’ (Cohen, 2005: 147). Furthermore, Puang Matoa Saidi’s presence ‘as
chanter infused the production with sacred energy, but the sanctity of religious tradition is guarded from degradation by mass consumption’ (Cohen, 2005: 148). For
Cohen, Puang Matoa Saidi’s impassive chanting paradoxically reinforced the
authenticity of the production. Moreover, the performance of sacred elements was
undertaken in what Cohen believes was an appropriate manner and ‘This is, in
itself, a cultural intervention of note, an example to be heeded by all religiously
inflected global productions’ (Cohen, 2005: 148).
For Chaudhuri (2005), however, the play was devoid of any authentic performance of Bugis tradition and indeed came ‘perilously close to the ethnographic floor
shows presented at Bali’s tourist resorts’. Similarly for Lindsay (2007: 71), Bugis
culture and identity were artificially homogenized and any dynamics inherent
within these groupings were unfortunately ignored. Indeed, in attempts to present
imagined cultural purity and signal Bugis authenticity, Lindsay (2007: 72) notes
that all Islamic elements were purged from the production.
The general audience, too, often expected a genuine Bugis experience. When the
(Javanese) composer and music director, Supanggah, was asked at a public forum
where the musicians came from, the audience felt a sense of reduced authenticity
when it was revealed that the musicians came from all over Indonesia, not just
Bugis South Sualwesi (Lindsay, 2007: 70). Moreover, the production included
music and dances taken from across Sulawesi and the Malay world, such as the
Makassar pakarena dance, all of which resulted in some people regretfully feeling
that the production borrowed cross-cultural elements and was therefore less Bugis
than Indonesian (Cohen, 2005: 148; Hamonic, 2008). Other commentators additionally deplored elements being introduced into the play that were beyond the limits of ‘traditional Bugis culture’ or the original source material. Macknight (2006:
145) thus wonders ‘How far can expression of Bugis culture and identity be
Indonesianized? And does it matter?’
Other themes surrounding the production included representation and appropriation. Supporting advertisements promoted I La Galigo variously as a Bugis,
Sulawesi, Indonesian, Malay, or Asian production. For instance, the production
was sometimes ‘localized’ as being Malay by virtue of its inclusion of wayang kulit
shadow puppeteers from the Malaysian state of Kedah (Lindsay, 2007: 65). While
many in the audience expected to see representations of something authentically
Bugis, as revealed above, advertising material frequently promoted the event as
bringing an Asian repertoire to an international public (Hamonic, 2008; Lindsay,
2007: 64). Indeed, Singaporean advertisements tended to downplay any cultural
specificity in favour of explicitly conveying an ‘international’ rather than an ‘ethnic’ image (Lindsay, 2007: 64). For some commentators, this Singaporean appropriation was read as a powerful nation exploiting a less powerful entity.
In discussion with Bugis informants about I La Galigo I heard expressed a great
deal of resentment about the manner and content of the production. While people I

Conclusion 213
spoke with in Bugis South Sulawesi had not seen the stage-play, they picked up
on many of the disseminated themes of the reviews. For instance, one of the
most frequently articulated concerns was that the production was a jumbled conflation of Javanese, Balinese and other elements and that any quintessential
Bugis elements were lost. People thus lamented that the production was no longer
a Bugis production but that it was an Indonesian or even an Asian production.
Indeed one person asserted that Wilson has modified La Galigo so much that his
production is a betrayal (khianat) of the original Bugis epic. Other informants
specifically voiced concern over Wilson’s choices, declaring that Wilson had no
right to produce and present such a culturally and ethnically mixed (campurcampur dan gado-gado) performance. One individual stated that, ‘La Galigo is an
original and authentic Bugis commodity, not one than can or should be mixed up by
someone who does not even appreciate what La Galigo really is.’
Many of the themes that surfaced around the production of I La Galigo come up
in respect to gendered subject positions in Indonesia. For bissu, calabai and calalai
issues of authenticity, borrowing, performance, representation and appropriation
are engaged with on a quotidian basis. Like I La Galigo, gendered subject positions
do not just copy available texts but rather develop their particular productions
through performative translations. Prior to Wilson’s play there had never been a
visual performance of I La Galigo; the only performances involved chanting, with
narratives being passed down orally or through written script. As such, it can be
argued that the 2004 visual production cannot be criticized for having wrongly performed the epic. Just like I La Galigo, there are no original gendered subject positions and as such there are no authentic presentations of self. Rather than seeing
either the performance of the play or the performance of self as inauthentic,
wrongly performed, a misrepresentation, or as falsely appropriating other elements, it can be more valuable to see such productions and performances through
tropes of process and interplay. I La Galigo, like the development of gendered
selves, involves cultural translation, the use of creative technologies, and dynamic
mergings of subjectivity with global, local, national and religious elements. The
convergence of these factors produce particular gendered subject positions in
Indonesia, positions that this book has hopefully meaningfully explored.

Glossary

This glossary includes a list of frequently used terms. The word is followed by an
indication of language source: I for Indonesian; B for Bugis; E for English. I do not
mark any further etymology of a word even if the word originally derives from
Sanskrit, Arabic or Dutch.
adat:
agama:
alat:
Andi:
arajang:
asli:
bangsawan:
bencong:
bissu:
Bugis:
bupati:
calabai:
calalai:
dangdut:
darah putih:
dewata:
disurupi:
dukun beranak:
Haji:
hajj:
hir:
hunter:
Ibu:
imam:
Indo’:

I; custom, tradition, customary law.
I; religion.
I; tool, device, instrument.
B; title signifying noble descent and high status, although
lower status than Puang.
B; sacred regalia.
I; real, original, authentic.
I; nobility.
I; slang word for transgender male.
B; androgynous shaman.
B; largest ethnic group in South Sulawesi.
I; regent or district head.
B; transgender male.
B; transgender female.
I; a genre of Indonesian popular music partly derived from a
mix of Arab, Indian, and Malay folk music.
I; literally ‘white blood’, representing noble lineage.
I; spirit, deity.
I; entered by a spirit.
I; midwife.
I; title indicating an individual has made the pilgrimage to
Mecca.
I; the pilgrimage to Mecca.
E; gender neutral form of his/her.
E; a term some calalai use to refer to themselves.
I; Mother.
I; religious leader or prayer leader.
B; Mother.

Glossary
indo’ botting:
jilbab:
jiwa:
kasih sayang:
kebal:
kebaya:
kelamin:
kris:
kodrat:
La Galigo:
lesbi:
lines:
ma’giri’:
magrib:
makkunrai:
malebbi’:
mangngelli dara:
manusia:
Mas:
mate siri’:
mesjid:
nasib:
nenek:
oroané:
pacaran:
Pak:
pelacur:
pria:
Puang:
Puang Lolo:
Puang Matoa:
roh:
Rupiah (Rp):

sakit:
sakti:
Sengkang:
s/he:

215

B; wedding mother (may be calabai); managers of weddings
and receptions.
I; Islamic head scarf/veil.
I; soul, spirit.
I; love, affection.
I; impenetrable.
I; traditional Malay-style dress for women.
I; genitalia.
I; wavy, double-bladed dagger.
I; fate.
B; also referred to as I La Galigo. Bugis epic cycle that relates
an envisaged past when spirits descended to the middle world
to create order.
E; lesbian.
I; feminine partner of calalai.
B; bissu test of spirit possession by self-stabbing.
I; evening Islamic prayers.
B; woman.
B; noble, refined.
B; literally ‘to buy blood’, meaning ‘to buy status’.
I; human.
I; title for a man, usually a relatively young man of equal or
lesser status to the speaker.
B; socially dead.
I; mosque.
I; destiny.
I; grandparent, usually grandmother.
B; man.
I; dating.
I; Mr.
I; sex worker, prostitute.
I; man.
B; honorific title signifying very high status and noble
descent.
B; assistant Puang Matoa.
B; highest rank a bissu can attain.
I; spirit, soul.
I; Indonesian currency. I give the general currency conversion
rate of Rp10,000 being equal to US$1 as this is both close to
the rate when I first began field work in 1998, and the current
rate of Rp9,500 as of September 2009.
I; ill, sick.
I; potent, powerful.
capital town of Wajo’ district, South Sulawesi.
E; gender-neutral form of she/he.

216

Glossary

sifat:
siri’:
Sulawesi:
tau malisé’:
tau massissi lalo:
tomboi:
Wajo’:
wanita:
waria:

I; characteristic, nature, essential quality.
B; honor/shame complex.
island in Indonesia.
B; revered person.
B; a person lacking desirable qualities; a low-status person.
E; derived from the English and used by some calalai to refer
to themselves.
district or regency of which Sengkang is the capital.
I; woman.
I; derived from wanita pria (woman man); national term for
transgender male.

Notes

1 There are many works on Bugis and Sulawesi. A few of the key sources that are relatively
accessible include the following: Acciaioli, 1989, 1990, 1998, 2002a, 2002b, 2004;
Ammarell, 1999, 2002; L. Andaya, 1981, 2004; Aragon, 2001, 2005, 2007; Baker, 2005;
Brooke, 1848; Buehler, 2007; Buehler and Tan, 2007; Bulbeck, 1996; Caldwell, 1988;
Caldwell and Nur, 2006; Chabot, 1996[1950]; Collins, 1937; Crawfurd, 1820;
Cummings, 2005, 2007; Davies, 2006a, 2006b, 2007a, 2007b; Druce, Bulbeck, and
Mahmud, 2006; Errington, 1989; Gervaise, 1971[1701]; Gibson, 2005; S. Graham, 2001,
2004a, 2004b; Hadrawi and Ibrahim, 1999; Hamonic, 1975, 1977a, 1980, 1988, 2002,
2004, 2006, 2008; Harvey, 1978; Idrus, 2004; Idrus and Bennett, 2003; Kennedy, 1993;
Kennedy, 1953; Lathief, 2004; Mackenzie, 1994; Macknight, 1979, 1993; Matthes, 1872;
Mattulada, 1998; Morrell, 2002; Nourse, 1996; Pelras, 1979, 1996; Robinson and Paeni,
1998; Rössler, 1997, 2000; Röttger-Rossler, 2000; Schrauwers, 2000; Silvey, 2000a,
2000b; Sutton, 2002, 2006; Tol, 1996; Tol et al., 2000; van der Kroef, 1956.
2 There is work published on banci/waria in Indonesia (Boellstorff, 2004b, 2005b; Oetomo,
1996, 2001); bantut in the Philippines (Johnson, 1997); balian and basir in Kalimantan
(Murray, 1992; Scharer, 1963); bayasa and bissu in Sulawesi (Adriani and Kruijt, 1912;
Andaya, 2000; Davies, 2007a; Hamonic, 1987b); two-spirit people in North America
(Angelino and Shedd, 1955; Blackwood, 1984, 1986, 1988; Callender and Kochems,
1983; Devereux, 1937; Jacobs, 1983, 1997; Lang, 1998; Lewis, 1941; Lurie, 1953;
Parsons,Q 1916; Roscoe, 1994, 1998; Simms, 1903; Whitehead, 1981; Williams, 1986);
fakaleith in Polynesia (Besnier, 1994); fa’fafine’ in New Zealand (Schmidt, 2002, 2005;
Worth, 2001); hijra in India (Nanda, 1990; Reddy, 2005); kathoey in Thailand (Jackson,
2000a); manang in Borneo (Roth, 1896); pondan and mak nyah in Malaysia (Peletz, 1996,
2006; Teh, 2002); mahu in Hawai’i (Matzner, 2001); rato nale in Sumba (Hoskins, 1990);
travesti in Brazil (Kulick, 1998); warok and gemblak in Java (Wilson, 1999); and xanith
in Oman (Wikan, 1977).
3 There is work published on butches in Lima and Jakarta (Wieringa, 1999); hunter and lesbi
in South Sulawesi (Idrus, 2006); lesbi in Indonesia (Blackwood, 2010); mahu in Tahiti
(Elliston, 1999); mustergil in Iraq (Westphal-Hellbush, 1997); sworn-virgins in the Balkans
(Dickemann, 1997; Grémaux, 1994); tomboi in Sumatra (Blackwood, 1998); tom and dee in
Thailand (Jackson, 2004; Sinnott, 2004); and two-spirit people in North America
(Blackwood, 1984; Cromwell, 1997; Lang, 1998; Roscoe, 1994; Whitehead, 1981).
4 In India, personhood is largely obtained through group affiliations. It is, therefore,
important that individuals marry a suitable partner, an action that links them into a larger
kin network. Another essential prerequisite to obtaining full personhood is having
children, especially sons. Couples who cannot conceive, or a man who is impotent
(with women), may be denied full personhood (Nanda, 1994: 394). For impotent men,
there is at least one possible way in which they can be accorded a degree of power: becoming hijra.

218

Notes

5 Around the 1960s, the category kathoey split into a number of masculine, feminine, transvestite and hermaphroditic variants. Jackson provides a list of kathoey variants mentioned
in the Thai press and other sources during that period. These include true hermaphrodite,
pseudo-hermaphrodite, cross-dressing man, cross-dressing young woman, a false
kathoey, masculine young homosexual man, masculine adult homosexual man, and a second type of kathoey or a man who prefers males but who does not cross-dress or act effeminately. Many of these categories did not last long and were replaced by the term gay
(Jackson, 2000a: 409–10).
6 See the following sources: Enre, 1983, 1999; Anderson, 2003; Hamonic, 1987b; Idrus,
2003; Kern, 1989; Koolhof, 1992, 1999; Macknight, 2006; Mattulada, 1998;
Nurnaningsih, 2003; Rahman et al., 2003; Salim et al., 1995; Salim, Enre and Rahman,
2000; Tol, 1992, 1996.
7 There is a large corpus of work on emotion and shame in Southeast Asia (e.g. Boellstorff
and Lindquist, 2004; Good, 2004; Klima, 2004; Rosaldo, 1983). On malu (shame) in
Malaysia, and more generally in Malay societies, see: Collins and Bahar, 2000; Heider,
1991; Peletz, 1996: 202–56. On notions of shame in Indonesia see: Boellstorff, 2004a;
Douglas and Wellenkamp, 1994; Lindquist, 2004. For isin (shame) among Javanese see:
Geertz, 1968; Jones, 2004; Keeler, 1983, 1987; Koentjaraningrat, 1985. On lek (shame) in
Bali see: Bateson and Mead, 1942; Geertz, 1973a; Jensen and Suryani, 1992; Wikan,
1990.
8 There is growing pool of publications in Indonesian that mention bissu, particularly bissu
in La Galigo manuscripts (Adaus, 1974; Enre, 1983, 1999; Asfriyanto, 2007; Badaruddin,
1980; Hamonic, 1977b; Kern, 1989; Lathief, 2003, 2004; Rahman et al., 2003; Salim et
al., 1995, 2000). There are also works in English, Dutch and French that include bissu
(Andaya, 2000; Blair and Blair, 1988; Hamonic, 1975, 1977a, 1977b, 1980, 1987b, 1988,
2002, 2004, 2006, 2008; Holt, 1939; Kennedy, 1993; Lathief, Sutton, and Mohamad,
2001; Macknight, 2006; Matthes, 1872; Sirk, 1975; van der Kroef, 1956). Additionally,
there are two stage plays (Nowra, 1999; R. Wilson, 2004), three documentaries (Grauer,
2004a; National Geographic, 2008; Tomaszewski et al., 2001), and more regionally
located works that include discussion of bissu (Blackwood, 2005a; Boellstorff, 2005b;
Peletz, 2006).
9 A large literature exists discussing the connection between androgyny and spiritual
potency (e.g. Adriani and Kruijt, 1912; Andaya, 2000; Anderson, 1972: 14; Blackwood,
2005; Eliade, 1960; Errington, 1989, 1990; Garber, 1995; P. Graham, 1987; Guillon,
1991; Hoskins, 1987, 1990; Johnson, 1997; Morris, 1994; S. O. Murray, 1992; Nanda,
1990; O’Flaherty, 1980a, 1980b; Peletz, 1996: 4, 2006; Roscoe, 1994; Roth, 1896;
Scharer, 1963: 18–23; Shapiro, 1991; Wilson, 1999).

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Index

Abbey, S. 18
Abidin, A. Z. 74
Abu-Lughod, L. 128
Acciaioli, G. ix, xvi, 5, 64–9, 72–6, 85,
92–3, 129, 162, 187, 190, 201–5, 217
Achnas, N. T. 104
Adam, J. 115
Adamson, C. xiv, 9, 16, 100, 106,
adat (traditional custom) 9, 21, 64, 77, 82,
138, 149, 171–2, 184–6, 199, 202–6
Adaus, A. H. 218
adolescents/teenage 103, 109, 151
Adriani, N. 217–18
Agrawal, A. 47
AIDS/HIV 25, 32, 171–2
Al-Ghifari, A. 113
Allah (God, Tuhan) see Islam
Allen, P. 152
Ambo Enre, F. 67, 72
Ammarell, G. 217
Andaya, B. W. 94, 106–7, 116, 177
Andaya, L. 68–79, 82–5, 90, 94, 106, 116,
164, 177, 183, 187, 217–18
Anderson, B. 175, 181, 218
Anderson, K. xvi, 218
androgyny xii, 3, 11–12, 46, 58, 63, 69,
71–3, 76, 79, 82, 86, 177, 218
Ansor 197
Anwar, I. 68
Anzieu, D. 19
Aragon, L. V. 4, 6, 217
arajang see regalia
Aripurnami, S. 104
ascetic/asceticism 42, 181–2
Association of Waria (Persatuan Waria)
170–1
Atkinson, J. M. 89
Austin, J. L. 18, 32
Avianto, U. 87

Ayu, D. M. 87
Bacigalupo, A. M. 69, 84–5, 174, 201
Badaruddin, M. 218
Bahar, E. 94, 218
Baker, B. 61, 69, 79–80, 217
banci 10–11, 217
Banks, D. 107
Basuki, F. 87
Batara Guru 71–5, 83, 200
Bateson, G. 218
BBC Indonesia 12
BBC News 152, 165
Beatty, A. 202
Beazley, H. 136, 168
Bell, D. 137
Belo, J. 75
bencong 10–11, 157
Bennett, L. R. xvi, 102–6, 108–13, 122,
145, 159, 162, 217
Bertrand, J. 14
Besnier, N. 49–51, 69, 217
Bettie, J. 14, 210
Bhaiya, A. 39
Bigalke, T. W. 6
bissu: acceptance/tolerance of 77, 79,
203–6; as androgynous shamans 71–3,
82, 84; asceticism and 76, 181;
becoming 71–2, 177, 179–83; being
bissu 183–97, 203–6;
body/embodiment, constitution and 24,
45, 54, 72, 79, 84, 174–9, 205; chants by
64, 70, 84–5, 180, 186, 192, 201, 212;
daily life of Chapter 8; definitions of i,
xii, 3, 9, 11–13, 61, 70, 158, 174; deities
(dewata), spirit world and 55–6, 67–8,
72, 79, 196, 201; discrimination against
60, 77, 164, 204; gender and 23–4, 34,
45–8, 52, 55, 61, 72; impenetrable

250

Index

bissu: acceptance/tolerance of (cont.):
(kebal) 82, 176, 181, 192; Islam and 72,
81, 85, 164, 176, 178, 185–6, 197–203;
La Galigo and 63–9, 74, 85; language of
179–80, 200; ma’giri’ (self-stabbing
ritual) 174, 176, 183, 191–7, 199–200;
mythology and 58, 63–4, 67–8, 73, 83;
past and Chapter 4; plays about 60, 68,
211–13; possession and 12, 176, 178,
189, 191–2; power of 24, 34, 45, 68, 72,
77, 80–3; regalia (arajang) and
instruments 63, 72, 75–9, 181, 184, 198;
rites of passage 179–83; rituals,
ceremonies, blessings and 62, 64, 73,
82–3, 180, 183–97, 201; roles of 60, 63,
68, 71–86, 183–97; royal courts, nobles
and 79–86, 181; sexuality and 61, 82,
182; weddings/marriage and 73–6,
85–6, 97, 153, 181–2
Blackburn, S. 97–8
Blackwood, E. i, xiv, xvi, 3–4, 9–10,
13–14, 22–25, 29, 31, 39–40, 43–4,
47–8, 58–9, 61–2, 84, 87, 97–8, 101–2,
105, 108, 119, 122–3, 125, 169, 174,
178, 204, 217–8
Blair, Lawrence 218
Blair, Lorne 218
blood (as status marker) 74–8, 94–5, 109,
189
Blust, R. 94
body modification 21–2, 36, 138, 141–3,
161, 182
body/bodies 1–2, 18–25, 32, 81–2, 138,
140–3, 172, 187, 210
Boellstorff, T. i, xii–xiv, xvi, 6, 9–15,
25–28, 31, 35–6, 55, 58–9, 61, 88, 98,
130, 105–6, 114, 119, 136, 141–3, 145,
153, 161, 165, 169–70, 172, 181, 183,
197, 204, 207–9, 217–18
Bolin, A. 21–2
Boon, J. A. 68, 75
Bornstein, K. xiii, 39
Bourchier, D. 143
Bourdieu, P. 33
Bowen, J. R. 106
Breger, C. 17
Brenner, S. 97, 101, 105
Brett, P. 57
Broch, H. B. 37
Brooke, J. 70, 78, 80–1, 89, 95, 106, 115, 217
Budiharsana, M. 103, 108, 190
Buehler, M. 4, 217
Bugis xii–xiv, 2–12, 20, 22–38, 46, 51,
55–6, 65–69, 71, 85, 88–9, 97, 207

Bulbeck, D. 169
Bull, C. 11, 66, 69, 95, 217
Burgess, R. 209
Burstin, H. E. 123
Butler, J. xiii, 2, 18–27, 32, 127–8, 134
calabai: acceptance/tolerance of 30, 35,
136, 158, 165–173; appearance and
147–9; as a wife 124, 143–4; becoming
36–7, 46, 180; behaviour and 33–4, 36,
149, 159–60, 163, 167–8; bodies, body
modification and 21–24, 33, 36, 138,
140–2, 146, 177; definitions of i, 8–11,
13; discrimination against 101, 114–15,
151–2, 158–65; entertainers/performers
149–151; fake/real 36, 84, 160, 168;
fashion parades, beauty pageants, and
157, 165, 170; fate (kodrat) and 35–6,
160, 167; femininity and 51, 55,
139–146; government views of 170–3;
gender and 7, 30–1, 37, 96, 138, 152,
160, 210; heterosexuality and 31, 124;
illness and 162, 164, 171; influences on
37–8; Islam and 22, 35, 148, 163–4,
166–70; male-bodied 21–24; marriage
and 30, 33; organisations and 170–1;
parenthood and 31, 36, 141, 144, 160–1,
165; pilgramage (hajj) and 147, 163,
166; relationships and 152–7, 167–8,
170; sex work and 157, 171; sexuality
28–31, 131, 144–6, 154, 157, 159–60,
163, 166, 208; sin and 162–3; siri’
(honour/shame) and 141, 165;
weddings, role in 46, 97, 121–2, 124,
140, 182
calalai: acceptance/tolerance of 13, 135–7;
appearance and 34, 133–4; becoming
35–8; behaviour and 29, 32–5; bodies
and 20, 33; definitions of i, 3, 8, 10;
discrimination against 22, 112, 120–2;
employment and 120, 122, 127; family
reactions and 126; gender and 13, 23–4,
47–8, 51, 54–5, 122–4, 129–35; history
and 59, 68–71; illness and 28–9; Islam
and 22, 35, 131; marriage and 96, 122,
125; masculinity and 29, 34, 45, 125–9;
negotiation/resistance by 124–5, 128–9;
parenthood and 34, 123–4; relationships
and 122, 125–8; sex toys and 131–2;
sexuality and 28–30, 131–2; see also
hunter, lines, tomboi
Caldwell, I. xvi, 65–6, 69, 217
Califia, P. 39
Caplan, P. 25

Index 251
Case, S. E. 57
Chabot, H. T. 70, 92–3, 115, 176, 217
Chaudhuri, U. 212
Chauncey, G. 18
children 20, 31, 36, 81, 97–105, 108,
113–4, 123–5, 132, 137, 141, 161–5,
169, 181
Chodorow, N. J. 17–18, 35
circumcision/clitoridectomies 89, 108–9,
189–90
Clark, M. 16, 87, 98, 104–5
Cohen, M. I. 60, 68, 205, 211–12
Collier, J. F. 18, 44
Collins, E. 94, 218
Collins, G. E. P. 70, 217
condoms 112, 145
Connell, R. W. 18
Corber, R. J. 13
courting/courtship 2, 88, 102–5, 108,
111–12, 129
courts/palace 43, 60, 63, 78–83, 108, 121,
180–5, 189, 197, 204
Craig, S. 105
Crawfurd, J. 70, 78, 89, 107, 116, 217
Creese, H. 69
Cromwell, J. 19, 22, 24, 39, 217
Cummings, W. 65, 76, 78, 217
D’Andrade, R. 35
Darling, D. 12, 66, 75, 113, 189, 205
Darwin, M. 108, 190
Dasgupta, R. 128
Davies, S. G. xvi, 6–7, 76, 86, 90–6, 100,
119, 184, 217
Davis, M. D. 132
de Beauvoir, S. 17–18
de Couto, D. 69
de Eredia, M. G. 69
de Lauretis, T. 18
deity (dewata) 12, 56, 67, 71–2, 79, 81,
174–9, 180–3, 189–92, 197–8, 200–1, 205
Delany, S. 57
Department of Religion 163, 165–6
Devere, H. 90
Devereux, G. 217
Devor, H. 17
dewata (deity) see deity
Dickemann, M. 217
diNata, N. 87
Dirks, N. B. 69
Djajadiningrat-Nieuwenhuis, M. 98
Donham, D. L. 34, 41, 146
Douglas, H. 218
Druce, S. 217

Duncan, C. R. 4
Dwyer, L. K. 97
Earle, S. 18
East Timor 4, 187
Edwards, L. 99
Eliade, M. 218
Eliraz, G. 106
Elledge, J. 43
Elliston, D. 217
embodiment 1–3, 9, 14, 19, 24–6, 51, 55,
76, 120, 134, 174, 176, 205
Enre, F. A. 64, 67, 73, 218
Epple, C. 16, 48
Errington, S. 24, 72, 77–8, 89, 178,
217–18
Esmaeli, K. 26, 36, 161
Evans-Pritchard, E. E. 25
Eves, A. 32–3, 128, 132, 134, 208
family 7–8, 13–15, 28, 36–7, 82, 91,
94–117, 120–3, 130, 139, 141, 143, 158,
161, 165, 185, 203
fate (kodrat) 35–8, 46, 56, 72, 74, 96, 123,
161–4, 167–8, 172
Faturochman 108
Fausto-Sterling, A. 23
Feinberg, L. 9, 19, 39
feminine/femininity 1–3, 9, 13, 17–18, 21,
24, 29, 32, 34, 43, 51–6, 70–1, 92–3,
101–5, 111, 116–18, 122–8, 132,
138–51, 157–9, 175–7
fieldwork: being a woman and 7–8; as
intrusive 126; difficulties 8–9; doing
fieldwork xiv, 1–15; language and terms
8–9, 1–14; length of 6; methodology 7;
my position 8; pseudonyms 9
Florida, N. K. 114
Ford, M. 99
Forrest, T. 70
Foster, S. L. 57
Foucault, M. 10, 18, 26, 41, 61, 89, 118
Friedericy, H. J. 70, 84
Frye, N. 66
Fuss, D. 19
Gallagher, J. 169
Garber, M. 218
gay 8, Chapter 2, 59, 61, 87, 105, 169–70,
208, 210
gay consciousness 162
GAYa Celebes 161, 165
Gayatri, B. J. D. 102
Geertz, C. 6, 90–4, 97–8, 218

252

Index

gender: appearance/clothing and 30–7, 76,
89–90, 109, 120, 125, 133–4, 143–9,
151–2, 160–4; behaviour and 32–7,
104–9, 111–12, 116, 130, 139, 145, 148,
151–2, 169; biology and 16–19, 20–25;
body 19–25, 140–3, 157, 172–8; calabai
and Chapter 6; calalai and Chapter 7;
chromosomes and 24; combination and
24, 32, 42, 44, 47, 54, 56, 72, 79, 175–8,
202; compared with age 23, 55, 139,
208; definitions of 9, Chapter 2; destiny
(nasib) 35–8; downplayed 90–1; early
observations of 89–97; fate (kodrat)
35–8; flexibility 31, 49, 86, 148, 177–8;
formation 17, 20–30, 35, 46, 56, 118,
128, 210; history and xiii, 16–20,
Chapter 4; ideals of xiii, 4, 97–105;
identity and xii, 9, 13–14, 16, 23, 27, 29,
32, 210; importance of 96; Islam and
xiv, 22, 105–111; lack of alternative
models 97–105, 120–2; life-cycle rituals
and 50, 85, 89, 109, 116; marriage and
22, 94–7; multiple categories 41–9;
performance/performativity 18, 22–3,
32–35; sexuality and 18, 25–32; siri’
(honour/shame) and 97–105; soul (roh)
and 35–8; spirit (jiwa) and 35–8; status
and 89–97; Western thought and
16–20; X factor (faktor X) and 37–8
Gervaise, N. 70, 106, 109, 111, 115, 217
Gibson, T. 217
God (Allah) see Islam
Gonda, J. 11
Good, B. 218
Gordon, J. 202
Gordon, R. G. 4
government: acceptance/tolerance of
genders by 165–73; family principle
(azas kekeluargaan) 5, 143; gender and
xiii, 2–3, 87–8, 90, 97, 98–105, 108
Graham, P. 218
Graham, S. 60, 119, 217
Grauer, R. 12, 60, 205, 218
Green, J. 19, 39
Green, J. N. 41
Grémaux, R. 217
Grewal, I. 58, 209
Griggers, C. 57
Grosz, E. 23
Guillon, E. 218
Hadimuljono 69
hajj (pilgrimage) 1, 22, 79, 97, 117, 163,
166–7, 170, 176, 185–6

Halberstam, J. 18, 39, 47, 208
Hale, C. J. 8, 39
Hall, S. 13
Hamonic, G. 67–8, 70, 75, 78–9, 81, 94,
177, 179–81, 205, 212, 217–18
Handajani, S. 104
Haraway, D. xiii, 16, 18
Harding, C. 110, 112–13
Harvey, B. 77–8, 197, 217
Hausman, B. L. 21
Havelock, E. A. 66
health care clinics (puskesmas) 189
Hefner, R. 106, 210
Heider, K. 218
Helliwell, C. 32
Herdt, G. xiv, 41, 45
Heriot-Darragh, K. 135
Herliany, D. R. 87, 105
Herriman, N. 60, 204
heteronormative 3–4, 87, 106, 111, 124,
144, 152, 209
Heyes, C. J. 8, 21, 208–9
Hines, M. 19
hir 9
HIV/AIDS 25, 32, 171–2
Holt, C. 60, 78, 203, 218
Holzner, B. M. 112
homosexuality xiii, 3, 13, 25–7, 36, 40, 42,
58–9, 61–2, 70, 87, 102, 108, 111, 119,
163, 168–9, 172, 208
honour/shame see siri’
Hooker, M. B. 106
Hoon, C. Y. 14
Hoskins, J. 72, 217–18
Howard, R. S. 28
Howell, J. D. 4
Hukma, A. 68
Hull, T. 108
hunter 10, 29, 123, 132–3, 136, see also
calalai, tomboi
Hunter, T. H. 65
Ian, M. 57
identity 13, see also gender
Idrus, N. I. xvi, 4–10, 24, 28, 63–5, 69–71,
74, 85, 87, 90–6, 100–16, 129, 133, 141,
145, 151–2, 160, 166–9, 186, 217–18
ill/illness (sakit) 28–9, 132, 145
Illich, I. 16
indo’ botting (wedding mothers) 46, 154,
164
Islam: Al Hunza Bil Hunza 169;
Allah/God 21–2, 35–6, 38, 43, 71–4,
78–85, 107, 141, 163–8, 172, 176, 178,

Index 253
180, 191, 198–203; behaviour/dress
105–111; bissu 197–203; Bugis and
2–6; calabai and 154, 162–5, 169;
calalai and 122, 133; gender and xiv,
22, 105–111; hajj (pilgrimage) 1, 22, 79,
97, 117, 163, 166–7, 170, 176, 185–6;
Islamic leader (ulama) 106, 198; Mecca
1, 22, 60, 67, 163–6, 201; mosque
(mesjid) xiv, 21, 106, 109, 199; prayer
21, 43, 109–10, 112, 138, 164, 176, 186,
190, 198–9; Qur’an 85, 107–10, 164,
168–9, 198, 200
Istiabudi, N. 87
Jackson, P. A. xiv, xvi, 10, 23, 29, 31–2,
40–1, 52–8, 61, 89, 135, 137, 159, 207,
217–8
Jacobs, H. 69, 72, 79
Jacobs, S. 43–4, 217
Jagose, A. 26–7
Jensen, G. 218
Johnson, M. xiv, 2, 9, 30, 61–2, 143, 207,
217–18
Jolly, M. 27
Juliastuti, N. 93
Kahar Muzakkar movement 197
Kaplan, C. 58, 209
Kendall 131
Kennedy, E. L. 132
Kennedy, M. 89, 200, 217–18
Kennedy, R. 70, 133, 217
Kern, R. 67, 218
Kessler, S. 18, 23–4
Kinsey, A. C. 70
Klima, A. 218
Kondo, D. 127
Koolhof, S. xvi, 64–7, 72–5, 83, 218
Kortschak, I. 165, 170, 205
Kruijt, A. C. 217–18
Kulick, D. 9, 21–2, 26–7, 30–1, 41, 142,
217
La Galigo 66–86, 113, 177, 189, 197,
205–213
Lai, F. 129
Lamphere, L. 17
Lang, S. 43, 217
language: bissu 180; Bugis 4; Indonesian
4; italics, use of 8; learning language 8;
pronouns 9
Laqueur, T. 20
Lathief, H. xvi, 11–12, 60, 75, 84, 177,
182–7, 190, 197, 200, 202–5, 217–18

Laurent, E. 108
lesbian (lesbi) xiii, 8, 10, 14, 25–7, 31–3,
39, 59, 61, 87, 102–5, 119, 121–3, 131,
134–6, 145, 208, 210
Lesmana, M. 104
Letherby, G. 118
Lindquist, J. 218
Lindsay, J. 12, 60, 67, 205, 212
lines (partners of calalai) 10, 28–9, 32, 47,
54–5, 61, 67, 89, 123, 132–6
Long, N. 14
Loos, T. 85
love (kasih sayang) 75, 98, 102–5, 131–2,
155, 168
Love, H. K. 19, 39
Lubis, F. 108
Lutkehaus, N. C. 17
Mackenzie, C. 78–9, 217
ma’giri’ (self-stabbing ritual) 11, 174–6,
183, 191–7, 199–200
Magowan, F. 202
Mahmud, I. 217
Maimunah 14
makkunrai (woman) 54, 84
Malaysia xiv, 141, 144
man see men
Manalansan, M. F. 27, 123, 141, 146, 149,
204–5
Manderson, L. 27, 107
Mantovani, R. 104
Marching, S. T. 88
Marcus, G. 207
Marcus, S xiii, 14, 17, 27, 208, 210
Mardi Gras 149
marriage: arranged 28, 103–4; bissu and
73–6, 184–5; bridewealth 74; Bugis
views of 90–1, 94–6; free choice
103–4; heterosexual marriage 30, 51,
100–3, 108, 113, 122–3, 152; Islam and
106–8; mythology and 73–6; polygamy
96, 108, 143; sin, shame, and 3–4, 112,
169; status and 91, 93–6; unofficial
107, 114, 143; see also weddings
Martin, M. K. 23, 41
Martyn, E. 97
masculine/masculinity 2, 17–18, 24, 27,
29, 33–4, 45, 47, 53–6, 71, 88, 92–4,
100–5, 111–18, 122, 125–9, 132–5, 145,
175–6, 204
Matthes, B. F. 70, 82, 111, 217–18
Mattulada 66, 78, 217–18
Matzner, A. 217
McIntosh, M. 40

254

Index

McKenna, W. 18
McNay, L. xv, 33, 134
Mead, M. 2, 17, 218
men: definitions of 17, 23–4, 30–1; ideals
of 97–105; Islam and 22, 105–111;
same-sex sexuality and 11, 22, 29–31;
siri’ (honour/shame) and 111–18; status
and 89–97
methodology 7
Meyerowitz, J. 23–4
Millar, S. 6, 70, 78, 85, 91–100, 111,
115–16, 129, 141
Mills, R. F. 11
Mohamad, A. M. 218
Money, J. 16
Monro, S. 19, 23
Morgan, L. M. 39, 47, 49, 56–7, 60
Morrell, E. 217
Morris, R. 53–4, 57, 218
Munir, L. Z. 107, 110
Murray, A. J. 10, 21, 29, 102, 104, 123
Murray, S. O. 69, 162, 169, 217–18
Murtagh, B. 87
Muslim i, xiii, 1, 4, 6, 21–2, see also
Islam
Mustafa, M. Y. 111
Namaste, K. 57
Nanda, S. 25, 35, 42–5, 48, 73, 153, 181–2,
189, 217–18
Nash, M. 202
Nasyaruddin, A. 111
National Geographic xvi, 60, 205, 218
Neihof, A. 108
Nestle, J. 133
New Order (Orde Baru) 98–105, 205
Newland, L. 108–9, 190
Newton, E. 29, 149
Nilan, P. 103–4, 114
Noorduyn, J. 65
Nooteboom, C. 176
Nourse, J. 181, 189, 217
Nowra, L. 60, 205, 218
Nur, M. 217
Nurmila, N. 106, 108
Nurnaningsih 94, 218
Nyompa, J. 67
O’Flaherty, W. 218
O’Reilly, A. 18
Octaviand, A. 2
Octaviatie, I. T. 108
Oetomo, D. xvi, 3, 14, 28, 58, 112, 137,
210, 217

Ong, A. 75, 109
oroané (man) 55
Ortner, S. 17
Osborne, P. 18, 27
Paeni, M. 217
palace see courts/palace
Pandhuagie, F. G. 152
Parker, L. xiv–xvi, 18, 68, 74–5, 78, 82–3,
95, 97–8, 124, 143, 160, 162, 174, 183,
189, 210
Parker, R. 41, 145
Paul, J. P. 25
Pausacker, H. xiv, 151–2, 210
Peletz, M. G. 58, 60–2, 75, 85, 90, 98, 101,
197, 204, 210, 217–18
Pelras, C. 10–11, 35, 60, 64–70, 73, 82, 89,
93–6, 116, 130–1, 136, 169, 179–80,
182, 186, 198, 202, 211, 217
pilgrimage (hajj) see hajj
Pinto, M. 69
Pires, T. 69
pornography/pornography law xiv, 10,
151–2, 171, 210
prayer 21, 43, 98, 112, 138, 176, 180, 186,
190
Prieur, A. 31, 34, 36, 115, 145–6, 154
pronouns 9
Prosser, J. 18–19, 32, 39
pseudonyms 9
Purwatiningsih, S. 108
Putranti, B. D. 108
queer/queer theory xiii, 2, 6–8, 13–14, 18,
26–7, 32–3, 38–9, 58–9, 105, 139, 146,
151, 157, 204–5, 207–11
Queer Day 60
Quint, C. 205
Qur’an 85, 107–10, 164, 168–9, 198, 200
Raffles, T. S. 89
Rahman, N. 64, 68, 94, 218
Ramet, S. 19, 39, 73
Reddy, G. 14, 27, 46–7, 58, 73, 131, 160,
178, 182, 199, 217
regalia (arajang) 60, 63, 72, 75–9, 82, 85,
181, 184, 198
Reid, A. 6, 77, 89
relationships: being suitable (cocok) 29,
123, 144; calabai and 152–7, 167–8,
170; calalai and 122, 125–8;
courting/courtship 2, 88, 102–5, 108,
111–12, 129; establishing intimate
relations 29, 82, 112, 115, 128, 130,

Index 255
137, 141, 159, 160, 162; foreigners and
146; love (kasih sayang) and 75, 98,
102–5, 131–2, 155, 168
Rich, A. 26
Ricklefs, M. 6, 211
rites of passage 183, 205
ritual offerings 180
rituals 7, 12–13, 50, 62, 67–8, 77, 79,
84–6, 89, 96, 146, 176, 180–5, 189, 190,
197–8, 201–2
Riza, R. 104
Roald, A. 107
Robinson, K. 90, 103, 106, 108, 110, 217
Roces, M. 99
Rocha, C. 88, 202
Rosaldo, M. 17, 218
Rosario, V. A. 19
Roscoe, W. 16, 43–9, 162, 169, 217–18
Rössler, M. 76–8, 186, 217
Roth, H. L. 217–18
Rubin, G. 17, 132, 208
Rubin, H. 19
Rush, J. 60
s/he 9
Said, E. 8
Salamon, G. 19, 23
Salim, M. 64, 72, 218
Sangren, S. P. 88
Scharer, H. 217–18
Schilder, P. 19
Schleifer, D. 16, 21, 26, 208–9
Schmidt, J. xvi, 217
Schrauwers, A. 95, 217
Scott, J. W. 19
Sedgwick, E. 18, 54
Segal, L. 18, 27
Seidman, S. 119
self-stabbing ritual (ma’giri’) see
ma’giri’
Sen, K. 98–9, 105, 110
Sengkang 6
sex (biological) xii–xiii, 9, 16, 18, 20–5,
45, 53
sex-reassignment 22, 36, 142, 161
sex work/prostitution 49, 142, 157, 171,
182
sexual practices: dildo 131; fellatio 171,
182; masturbation 171;
penetration/being entered 28, 30–1, 98,
131–2, 142, 145; vibrator 131–2
sexual relations 3–4, 22, 28, 30–1, 43,
101–3, 108–9, 131, 141, 154, 162–3,
168–9, 182

sexuality: adolescence 103, 109;
awakening 27; calabai and 28–31, 131,
144–6, 154, 157, 159–60, 163, 166, 208;
calalai and 28–30, 131–2; definitions
13; erotic desire 27, 31, 50, 53, 55–6;
gender and 18, 25–32, 208;
heterosexuality 101–5, 112–13, 169–70,
210; homosexuality xiii, 3, 13, 25–7, 36,
40, 42, 58–9, 61–2, 70, 87, 102, 108,
111, 119, 163, 168–9, 172, 208; illness
and 28–9, 132, 145; Islam and 108,
111; same-sex sexuality 119, 204; sin
and 22, 36, 80, 131, 154, 163, 166,
168–72
shaman: definitions of 3, 12, 69, 79, 84,
174, 177, 201
shame see siri’
Shapiro, J. 18, 22, 218
Silverman, K. 19
Silvey, R. xii, 123, 217
sin: sexuality and 22, 36, 80, 131, 154,
163, 166, 168–72; bissu beliefs as 198–9
Sinnott, M. 10, 13, 27, 30, 35–6, 53, 60–1,
119, 122, 127–35, 209, 217
siri’ (shame/honour): causing 28, 70,
111–18, 120, 130, 141, 165, 167;
definitions of 88, 111; gender and
111–18; honour killings/revenge 115; in
the past 111, 115, 139
Sirk, U. 11, 218
Slot, J. A. 70
Smith, K. 205
Smith-Hefner, N. J. xiv, 93, 98, 103, 106,
203
South Sulawesi 4–6
Spiro, M. E. 202
status (class, rank, social location): blood as
marker of 76, 78, 82–3, 94–5; gaining
status 66, 85, 89–97, 107, 109, 116;
gender and 16, 61, 89–97, 99; highstatus 1, 68, 73, 84, 141, 165, 185;
importance of 89–97, 149; losing status
89–97, 117, 131, 204; low-status 90,
114, 116, 121, 158; marriage, weddings
and 76, 86, 96–7, 103, 114; nobility and
28, 84, 106
Stein, A. xiii, 27, 38, 208
Stewart, C. 202
Stoler, A. L. 89
Stone, S. 21–2, 39, 76
Strathern, M. 128, 137
Stryker, S. 6, 13–14, 20, 39, 147
Suharto 4, 87, 98, 100, 105, 120, 161, 184,
205, 210

256

Index

Sukarno 4, 110
Sukarnoputri, Megawati 4, 99, 110
Sulistiyanto, P. 89
Sullivan, N. 98, 100
Suryakusuma, J. 98, 102, 143
Suryani, L. K. 218
Sutton, R. A. 217–18
Suyono, S. J. 67
Tafoya, T. 43
Tan, P. J. 4, 217
Tangke, A. W. 111
Teh, Y. K. 217
Thomas, N. 69
Thomas, W. 43
Thontowi, J. 115
Tiwon, S. 98
Tol, R. xvi, 73, 76, 93, 217–18
Tomaszewski, M. 60, 205, 218
tomboi 10, 13, 59, 120
Towle, E. B. 39, 47, 49, 56–7, 60
traditional custom (adat) see adat
transgender xii, xiii, 2–3, 7, 9, 13, 19–20,
22, 26–27, 32, 34, 39–40, 48, 58–62, 87,
105–6, 138–9, 204–5, 208–10
trapped in the wrong body 21, 24
Trumbach, R. 69
Tsintjilonis, D. 12, 176, 183
Turner, B. S. 20
Turner, V. 50, 183
Tuzin, D. 25
Utami, A. 87–8, 105
Valentijn, F. 69–70
Valentine, D. 26, 32, 57
Valocchi, S. 6, 9, 13, 119, 209
van Bemmelen, S. 189
van der Kroef, J. 58, 84, 175–6, 217–18
van der Meer, T. 41
van Dijk, K. 93
van Doorn-Harder, P. 106
van Gennep, A. 50
van Lier, R. 25
van Wichelen, S. xiv
Vance, C. S. 25
veil/headdress (jilbab) xiv, 97, 148, 152,
166, 185
virginity 74, 98
Volkman, T. A. 6
Voorhies, B. 23, 41
Vossoughian, Y. 26, 36, 161
wadam 10–11

walsu 10
wanita (women) see women
waria: Association of Waria (Persatuan
Waria) 170–2; definitions of 10–11, 13,
34, 105; discrimination against 154,
162–3; Festival Waria 136, 165, 205;
support for 29, 136, 170–2; sex work
and 141–2
Wé Nyili’ Timo’ 73–5
Webster, T. W. 9–10, 127, 129
wedding mothers (indo’ botting) see indo’
botting
weddings: bissu and 52, 73–6, 85–6, 97,
153, 181–2; Bugis 6, 90, 94, 96–7;
calabai and 21, 30, 46, 52, 97, 121–2,
124, 140, 159–60, 182; seating
arrangements and 96–7; status and 76,
86, 94, 96–7, 103, 114; see also
marriage, indo’ botting
Weeks, J. 25
Wellenkamp, J. 218
West, C. 18
West/Western 6–7, 13, 16–20, 32, 39, 41,
46–9, 54, 57, 149
Weston, K. 47, 119
Westphal-Hellbush, S. 217
Whitehead, H. 17, 35, 179, 217
Whittle, S. 39, 57
Wicki, J. 69
Wiener, M. J. 69, 77
Wieringa, S. xvi, 14, 22–3, 25, 29, 31, 39,
47–8, 99–101, 106, 128, 217
Wikan, U. 30, 217–18
Wilchins, R. xiii, 9, 22, 39
Wilson, I. D. 217–18
Wilson, M. 21
Wilson, R. 60, 67–8, 205, 211, 213, 218
Winter, S. 39
Wittig, M. xiii, 18
woman see women
women: as entertainers 34, 149–51;
average women (wanita biasa) 117;
definitions of xiii, 16–20, 23, 98, 104;
equality and 90, 107; going on the hajj
117; government ideals of 98–100;
lines as 47, 55, 132–3; Islamic ideals
of 105–11; more guarded than men
112, 121; past and 59, 65–6, 74, 78,
80, 89–90, 106–7, 113, 115–16;
pregnancy and 96, 112, 114, 123, 189,
190; representations in media of
104–5; rough women (wanita kasar)
34, 149–51; sexuality and 3, 65–6,
82, 87, 101–3, 108, 111–13; siri’

Index 257
(honour/shame) and 111–18; status
and 87, 90–1, 93–6; travel and 93,
109, 123; unmarried 109–15, 117,
129
Worsley, P. M. 17
Worth, H. 217

Yanagisako, S. J. 18, 44
Yang, H. 105
Yaqin, A. 109
Yusuf, N. R. 87
Zimmerman, D. H. 18