Religious Polarization and Representations of Gender Pluralism in Indonesia

The recent propagation of anti-LGBTQ sentiments by Muslims from intersecting backgrounds is part of a larger sociopolitical transformation taking place in Indonesia since 2014. In that year, the presidential election was a site of tension due to the widespread circulation of rights-based discourses of various political entities, including Islamists and LGBTQ citizens. In a 2014 special issue of Time magazine, ‘The New Face of Indonesian Democracy,’ elected President Jokowi was featured on its cover page and described ‘as the nation's first head of state untethered from Indonesia's political and military aristocracies’ (Beech Reference Beech2014). The democratic promise, which was symbolized through Jokowi, however, proved to be complex and contradictory in practice. While ‘democratic cleavage’ was a dominant theme in the 2014 general election (Aspinall and Mietzner Reference Aspinall and Mietzner2019), Jokowi's campaign was also marked by sharp religious polarization. This antagonism took a radical turn when Basuki Tjahaja Purnama, an ethnic-Chinese minority and a Christian, was elected as Jokowi's replacement for the governor of Jakarta (Nuryanti Reference Nuryanti2020; Peterson Reference Peterson2020). Condemning Purnama's use of a Qur'anic verse during his re-election campaign in 2016, a coalition of Islamist organizations launched a series of protests that escalated into the 212 mass demonstration on 2 December 2016 in Jakarta (Fealy Reference Fealy2016; Power Reference Power2018).

In addressing the impacts of religious polarization in 2016 and new manifestations of Islamist-leaning politics within Indonesian diverse public realms, scholars contended that the 212 movement had sparked new concerns around religious pluralism (Peterson Reference Peterson2020; Hefner Reference Hefner and Formichi2021b) and populism (Nuryanti Reference Nuryanti2020; Fanany et al. Reference Fanany, Fanany, Reynolds, Salonen, Hämäläinen, Popple, Witkovsky, Stoecker, Mayo, Kenny, Ife and Westoby2021). Notably, the populism expressed through the 212 public discourse ‘does not represent…the whole Muslim public…and is, in fact, exclusionary [as it reflects] the specific views and interests of one part of the Muslim population against other groups that share…different theological and ideological views’ (Fanany and Fanany Reference Fanany, Fanany, Kenny, Ife and Westoby2020: 246). Even so, the 212 movement has significantly altered the dynamics of cultural pluralism in Indonesia. This is seen by the attempts made by Islamist groups to advocate for and maintain their own status quo, despite their struggle at the electoral level. Moreover, since 2016, morally conservative views on gender and sexuality, such as advocating for early-age marriage and anti-LGBTQ ideologies, have been integrated into the mainstream. Additionally, 212 organizers’ promotion of hypermasculinity and heteronormativity has influenced the popularity of male Muslim preachers (Nastiti and Ratri Reference Nastiti and Ratri2018), whose authoritative claims on gender and sexuality influence social atittudes toward gender equality among young Muslims (Qibtiyah Reference Qibtiyah, Hefner and Bagir2021).

Using the 212 as a mobilizing platform, some Islamist preachers utilized social media to construct LGBTQ visibility and non-Muslim leaderships as markers of immorality. The heightened moral panic in 2016 led Front Jihad Islam (FJI) vigilantes to attack PonPes Al-Fatah and to demand that the school shut down (Knight Reference Knight2016). Commenting on LGBTQ visibility and security issues, the leader of PonPes Al-Fatah claimed:

Despite the recent proliferation of national-scale, anti-LGBTQ Islamic discourses after 212, scholars studying queer populations in Indonesia (Bennett and Davies Reference Bennett and Davies2015; Blackwood Reference Blackwood2010; Boellstorff Reference Boellstorff2005; Davies Reference Davies2007) have given voice to a rich representation of gender fluidity. The Indonesian case of gender diversity also participates in a broader legacy of gender pluralism in Southeast Asia (Jackson Reference Jackson2000; Kang Reference Kang, Heijin Lee, Mehta, Ku and Alexy2019; Sinnott Reference Sinnott2004; Wieringa Reference Wieringa2014). In her ethnography, Sharyn Graham Davies (Reference Davies2007) examined the indigenous legacy of gender pluralism among Bugis, South Sulawesi's largest ethnic group, to illuminate the importance of gender in Bugis social organizations. Davies's work also underscores how Bugis communities transcend dichotomous constructions of gender in their lives. Davies claimed that ‘gender is of central importance in the organization and practice of Bugis social life,’ demonstrating that there are roughly five gender identities recognized in Bugis culture: makkunrai (feminine women), oroane (masculine man), calalai (masculine female), calabai (feminine male), and transgender shamans, called bissu (Davies Reference Davies2007: 132).

Detailing a lively calabai parade during Independence Day (1999), Davies showed how gender fluidity is not only recognized in Bugis society, but that it also has deep cultural significance. During national celebrations and public rituals, Davies observed a diverse representation of gender-fluid individuals who signaled a ‘lack of strict differences between women and men, and the ability of a female-bodied person to take on aspects of a man and vice versa’ (Davies Reference Davies2007: 17). She further added that ‘gender is not just about your body or about how you feel; for many Bugis, gender and gender identity are very much about what is performed in public’ (Davies Reference Davies2007: 25). At the same time, gender fluidity has also been contested in Bugis society. This can be viewed through the rise of anti-bissu sentiments among certain Muslims in South Sulawesi. Bissu denotes ‘an individual who embodies the energy of both male and female [and is believed to be] powerful enough to contact the spirit world’ (Davies Reference Davies2007: 86). Mythology around bissu's power and their gender fluidity were sometimes conceived as mushrik, an Islamic term referring to individuals who practice idolatry or polytheism. However, a renewed interest in preserving Indonesian adat (folk/traditional customs) has allowed ‘bissu practices…to coexist with Islam,’ where gender fluidity is officially recognized as part of Bugis culture (Davies Reference Davies2007: 99).

Beyond examples of gender pluralistic expressions among indigenous ethnic groups, anthropologists have also examined contemporary representations of LGBTQ identities in Indonesia. Exploring queer subject positions, Tom Boellstorff argued that ‘dubbing’ (a metaphor for contemporary forces of globalization) has generated new categories, such as lesbian and gay, wherein; Western concepts of homosexuality’ are placed in ‘the Indonesian context’ (Boellstorff Reference Boellstorff2005: 6). However, within the boundaries of Indonesian cultures, LGBTQ advocacy's trajectory has been stymied by Indonesia's regional autonomy. Such independence allows regional authorities to construct social rules about gender and sexuality using predominantly heteronormative diction to exclude gay and lesbi positions (Boellstorff Reference Boellstorff2005: 216). Even so, Indonesia's landscape of pluralism has continued to enable the coexistence between expressions of gender diversity and heteronormative Islamic discourses.

Evelyn Blackwood's ethnography of tomboi and lesbi in Padang, West Sumatra (Reference Blackwood2010), illuminated how Muslim female-bodied gender nonconforming citizens engage with globally circulated LGBTQ discourses and subvert heteronormative Islamic norms in the region. Blackwood asserted that tombois (masculine partners of lesbi) often embody ambiguity in their gender expressions and feel closer to men, which has pushed them to craft strategies when expressing ‘their trans-identities in relation to family, community, and lovers’ (Blackwood Reference Blackwood2010: 3). Tombois must carefully negotiate self-presentation in their everyday lives because the dominant Islamic discourse in Padang defines ‘strict boundaries between men and women’; this leads some tombois to feminize their gender expressions around family and even resort to heterosexual marriage due to familial pressure (Blackwood Reference Blackwood2010: 45). Such cultural and religious tensions have led tomboi and lesbi in Padang to feel ambivalent about participating in LGBTQ activism.

Despite their complex realities, Blackwood's study demonstrates how tombois and their lesbi partners see themselves as part of ‘the global gay ecumene’ and how globalization allows ‘the circuits of queer knowledge…[to] travel back and forth’ between Indonesian and global LGBTQ communities (Blackwood Reference Blackwood2010: 5). The leader of PonPes Al-Fatah, Shinta, articulated this sentiment during our discussion about LGBTQ gender identifications. She asserted that she ‘feels more comfortable identifying as waria in [her] personal life due to the long history of waria identities and the recognition of their rights in Indonesia. However, she finds it important also to position herself as ‘transpuan and transgender woman’ to bridge her ‘advocacy projects and coalition building with global transgender networks like khwaja sira and hijras in South Asia.’ In this sense, the transnational circulation of knowledge about LGBTQ rights and identities, resulting from globalization, has motivated gender nonconforming citizens in Indonesia to build alternative networks of support and to engage carefully with international queer discourses, despite the pressure, coming from the state and Islamic authorities, to conform to heteronormative standards.

The Transformation of Precarious Subjects and Waria Advocacy

Precarity, ‘the condition of being vulnerable to others’ and a ‘globally coordinated phenomenon’ (Tsing Reference Tsing2015: 20, 205), adopts multiple forms and meanings in today's world. Highlighting the socio–political dimension of precarious lives under the strains of globalization, scholars have described precarity as an existential state ‘without an anchor of stability’ (Standing Reference Standing2016: 1), where individuals experience ‘a subjective shift from ontological security towards existential anxiety’ (Neilson Reference Neilson2015: 184). After neoliberal reforms, political instabilities tied to changing socio–economic relations (Harvey Reference Harvey2007; Hewamanne and Yadav Reference Hewamanne, Yadav, Hewamanne and Yadav2022) and state-sponsored violence (Butler Reference Butler2006; Khosravi Reference Khosravi2017; McRobbie Reference McRobbie2006) have also deepened systemic inequality. This further constrains minoritized subjects from gaining access to wellness and social mobility. The 2016 Front Jihad Islam has generated new feelings of existential anxiety among Yogyakarta's waria, who have found it ‘more difficult to earn a living and express themselves.’ The leader of PonPes Al-Fatah has asserted that:

Shinta's statement has illuminated how, for waria, precarity signifies as a sense of deep vulnerability, and how their insecurity is experienced psychologically, socially, and economically. Moreover, the notion of precarity is sometimes constructed by state actors and social welfare institutions through a ‘pathologization of vulnerability,’ where uncertainty signifies the embodiment of the ‘disordering experience’ of existential anxiety (Vij Reference Vij, Vij, Kazi and Wynne-Hughes2021: 68). In its visceral and material manifestations, precarity is relational and ‘runs through self and self-other relations,’ forming ‘a sense of unpredictability, dependence on the actions of others, and the finitude of forms of labour and life’ (Vij et al. Reference Vij, Kazi and Wynne-Hughes2021: 23). The affective quality of precarious existence, which to an extent is articulated and realized through social relations, can simultaneously be generative; indeed, it has sparked counter-hegemonic activism by structurally marginalized communities like migrant workers (Martin and Prokkola Reference Martin and Prokkola2017; Schierup and Jorgensen Reference Schierup and Jorgensen2016), the urban poor (Gooptu Reference Gooptu2001), and asylum seekers (Trimikliniotis et al. Reference Trimikliniotis, Parsanoglou and Tsianos2016; Waite et al. Reference Waite, Lewis, Dwyer and Hodkinson2015).

In a pluralist nation like Indonesia, uncertainty tied to a precarious existence is influenced by a wide array of socio–economic and cultural factors, as well as broader political transformations (and has been since Indonesia's independence). The significance of religion in governing public life and politics, as a condition of modernity (Casanova Reference Casanova1994; Eickelman and Piscatori Reference Eickelman and Piscatori2004), is evident in Indonesia's nation-building project. Still today, religious matters are some of the most crucial elements that drive ongoing debates about citizen-belonging in the country (Hefner Reference Hefner2000). Pancasila, Indonesia's founding principle and ideology, while universal and pluralistic in its orientation, dictates that the first pillar to Indonesian citizenry is ‘the belief in the one and only God’ (ketuhanan yang Maha Esa), consequently charting the path for boundary-making in the nation (Bagir et al. Reference Bagir, Asfinawati and Arianingtyas2020; Formichi Reference Formichi2021). Scholars have pointed out that the state's institutionalization of official categories like agama (monotheistic or world religions) and aliran kebatinan/kepercayaan (streams, can include indigenous and syncretic practice) significantly impacts religious identity constructions in Indonesia, particularly because it creates a sharp distinction between ‘religion’ and ‘indigenous tradition or culture’ (Bagir Reference Bagir and Hefner2018; Kunkler and Stepan Reference Kunkler and Stepan2013; Lindsey and Pausacker Reference Lindsey and Pausacker2016). While a few traditions that support the visibility of queer ritual specialists, such as bissu, have some grounds for legitimacy due to being recognized as a cultural heritage (Syam et al. Reference Syam, Tang and Safriadi2021), communities like Muslim waria, who challenge Islamic gender binary and normative codes, still face tensions in their daily religious practice.

The gradual process of Islamization and the spread of Islamic nationalist discourse throughout the 1970s and 1980s have also intensified precarity among religious minorities (e.g., Hindus and Christians), syncretism practitioners, and those affiliated with non-mainstream Islamic denominations (Atkinson Reference Atkinson1983; Geertz Reference Geertz1976; Hefner Reference Hefner1985). In 1998, the post-Suharto democratic transition also carved out new spaces of dissent among Muslims, arenas in which groups like Islamists and advocates of shariatization have strengthened their mass appeal by forming coalitions and proselytizing (Buehler Reference Buehler2016; Sidel Reference Sidel2006). While these examples illuminate a growing public visibility of conservative religious ideologies, the ‘conservative turn’ in Indonesia (Peletz Reference Peletz and Khairudin2022) remains situated within a broader pluralist landscape (Geertz Reference Geertz1973; Hefner Reference Hefner2021a; Howell Reference Howell2005) that continues to promote a fruitful coexistence between diverse groups representing different ideologies, authoritative claims, and rights-based discourses. The material existence of the PonPes Al-Fatah establishment is but one of many examples of the generative potential of Indonesian pluralism; it showcases the possibility for non-cisgender Muslim citizens to claim religious and political authority.

Aside from alternative religious views, gender politics is instrumental for nurturing new attitudes around human rights and equality in Indonesia. Rachel Rinaldo's study (Reference Rinaldo2013), which focused on the activism of middle-class Muslim women in Jakarta, highlights their desire to challenge their presumed subordinate position within male-centric political organizations. Rinaldo's interlocutors have argued that, since the first Muslim women's organization was established in 1917, women have actively participated in challenging gender hierarchies in Islamic political parties; they have also introduced a feminist perspective to Islamic equality debates and developed playful, modern ways of embodying piety (See also Bucar Reference Bucar2017; Smith-Hefner Reference Smith-Hefner2019). Similarly, Kathryn Robinson's exploration of gender politics in Islamic revivalist movements in Indonesia have illuminated that ‘women have been pivotal players in unfolding political scenarios, and [that] gender inequalities and ideologies have been central to sustaining the exercise of…power by a male-dominated elite’ (Robinson Reference Robinson2008: 188; See also Ong Reference Ong1990).

Today, people living in precarity have been defined largely through discourses on sexuality. Mass media explosion in the early 2000s led to the proliferation of legal, religious, and popular discourses addressing issues of pre-marital sex and queer sexuality, which sparked public anxieties, casting youth (Smith-Hefner Reference Smith-Hefner2009) and gender nonconforming citizens (Platt et al. Reference Platt, Davies and Bennett2018) as the primary drivers of Indonesia's current moral crisis. The pervasiveness of masculinist state ideologies, which distinguish the moral and national duties of women and men across Southeast Asia (Andaya Reference Andaya2008; Heng and Devan Reference Heng, Devan, Ong and Peletz1995; Williams et al. Reference Williams, Lyons, Ford, Ford and Lyons2012), has created even more precarious conditions for gender nonconforming citizens due to their ambiguous presentation and non-heteronormative life course. Tom Boellstorff contended that the post-Suharto democratic transition marked the emergence of ‘political homophobia’ (Boellstorff Reference Boellstorff2004), a new genre of violence and heterosexist cultural logic that targets gay and transgender communities. Tragically, it is claimed that these communities cause societal shame by defying dominant masculinist visions of the nation.

As a legacy of political homophobia, a renewed sense of moral panic has propagated the view that LGBTQ citizens threaten the pre-existing Islamic heteronormative system and even the nation itself (Davies Reference Davies2016; Rodríguez and Murtagh Reference Rodríguez and Murtagh2022; Thajib Reference Thajib2022; Wieringa Reference Wieringa, Knorr, Fleschenberg, Kalia and Derichs2022). Responding to Islamist mass mobilizing efforts since 2016 (Arifianto Reference Arifianto2020; Lane Reference Lane2019; Mietzner Reference Mietzner2018), those that helped facilitate the dissemination of anti-LGBTQ religious diatribes in Indonesia (Wijaya Reference Wijaya2022), waria communities have formed alternative spaces and political strategies to challenge stigma and transcend precarity. It is in this context that Muslim waria activists in Yogyakarta began promoting human rights through employing the rhetoric of ‘welfare’ and prioritizing issues like healthcare and food security in their partnerships with NGOs, government officials, and local religious leaders.

The notion of welfare is loaded with varied meanings and is often measured by how government and institutions develop policies to intervene on diverse social, political, and economic issues pertinent in specific historical periods (Adler Reference Adler2019). Literature on Southeast Asian welfare systems illustrates that, in Indonesia, Islamic organizations play a fundamental role in promoting social welfare, particularly with regard to issues of poverty, environmental justice, and gender equality (Aoki Reference Aoki and Nejima2015; Hefner Reference Hefner2000; Riyadi et al. Reference Riyadi, Sheik Abdukad, Saif, Takow and Sharofiddin2021). In the Special Region of Yogyakarta, social welfare is intimately bound to social life and politics. Yogyakarta rulers have historically showcased a philanthropic commitment and worked closely with the Indonesian Ministry of Social Affairs to cast a wide network of social welfare organizations across the region (Sugiyanto et al. Reference Sugiyanto, Hartono and Khuluq2021). Hence, despite threats of direct violence and social persecution under Indonesia's current anti-LGBTQ religious, social, and political climate, Yogyakarta's waria have showcased their deft ability to rely on existing local welfare structures. Demanding welfare has also allowed waria to expand their coalition network (Leany and Sari Reference Leany and Mustika Sari2022; Martinez Reference Martinez, Vaittinen and Confortini2020) with other precarious populations, including religious minorities, disenfranchised women, and LGBTQ youth, all of whom demand similar goals in their bottom-up advocacy around access and inclusion.

From Bare Soil to Sustenance: Food Insecurity and Waria Home Farming

My fieldwork in the hot and rainy summer of 2022 was filled with many surprises and wonders. Having just settled for a few days in Yogyakarta, I had yet to learn my way around the city. ‘You can basically split Yogyakarta in the middle; northern Yogya is where university kids and affluent families live and they've got mad expensive coffee. Southern Yogya is where down-to-earth folks and artists hang out, you'll find a ton of burjo in the south,’ said Nur,Footnote ² one of my queer interlocutors. Burjo, slang made up of the words bubur kacang ijo (Indonesian mung bean porridge), in its general sense, signifies a tiny roadside stall that sells basic food like Indomie noodles and fried rice. More specifically, burjo is a cultural phenomenon unique to Yogyakarta. Partaking in the burjo culture does not merely indicate that one prefers quick meals, or that only lower-income individuals occupy burjo. Rather, coming to a burjo is a marker of distinction (Bourdieu Reference Bourdieu1986) between those perceived as ‘living a stuck up life’ and those consuming an ‘authentic,’ slow-paced, common way of life in Yogyakarta.

Anthropologists have long studied food consumption to understand human behaviour and culture (Ayres Reference Ayres2013; Counihan Reference Counihan2018; Farb and Armelagos Reference Farb and Armelagos1980; Mintz and Du Bois Reference Mintz and Du Bois2002). Beyond capturing its biological and nutritional functions, studying food consumption also provides insights into power relations and how precarity takes shape in a given society. As a growing concern worldwide following the global economic crisis in the mid-2000s, scholars and policymakers alike have developed new strategies for understanding food security, a concept defined as ‘availability, access, and utilization’ (Barrett Reference Barrett2010: 825). Availability of food sources, while necessary, does not automatically denote access. Access to food is also ‘multidimensional’ because it manifests in an uneven manner economically and socio–culturally, primarily because not all foods suit a community's tastes and needs (Barrett Reference Barrett2010: 825). Utilization, moreover, refers to ‘whether individuals and households make good use of the food to which they have access’ (Barrett Reference Barrett2010: 825). On the one hand, the significance of consuming meals at a burjo reflects a widely shared appreciation for affordable and ‘lowkey’ dining experiences in Yogyakarta. On the other hand, the burjo's popularity also illuminates deeper systemic issues like a lack of adequate minimum wage and food insecurity.

Pondok Pesantren (PonPes) Waria Al-Fatah is situated inside a small alley in Kotagede, southern Yogyakarta.Footnote ³ The school main building resembles a traditional Javanese-style home, and the house was passed down to Ibu (ma'am, mother) Shinta, the leader of PonPes Al-Fatah, by her family. Within the complex, there is a small classroom with wooden desks and a table, a few bedrooms for residing individuals, a hair salon, an open veranda, and a medium-sized stage. In the summer of 2022, there were roughly 60 waria individuals affiliated with the boarding school. PonPes Al-Fatah also has diverse constituencies and stakeholders, including Christian waria, religious leaders, feminist associations, and LGBTQ organizations. Discussing her current priorities at PonPes Al-Fatah, Ibu Shinta claimed that ‘food security has been a big source of anxiety for waria communities in Yogyakarta since the COVID-19 pandemic.’ She added that after struggling because of hearing stories about waria ‘not eating for days’ and ‘not having any money to buy nutritious basic groceries,’ she reconsidered what, exactly, the PonPes could offer as a service. As one of the most prominent waria community leaders in Yogyakarta, Ibu Shinta envisioned and implemented multiple strategies to distribute daily sustenance and produce food in the community.

At PonPes Al-Fatah, there are multiple primary strategies for combatting food insecurity; these include communal feasts and the home farming initiative. Every Sunday, PonPes Al-Fatah hosts a Qur'anic recitation circle, followed by an evening prayer and a communal feast. The Qur'anic recitation circle is a regularly occurring activity, inspired by the school's mission to provide a safe space for waria to worship and gain spiritual nurturance (Esch Reference Esch2015; Safitri Reference Safitri, Burhanudin and van Dijk2013; Widyantoro Reference Widyantoro2019). What struck me so strongly about this weekly event was the fact that while it centres on Islamic spiritual practices (e.g., praying, reading the Qur'an, and listening to sermons delivered by an ustadz or ustadza [religious teachers]), at the heart of the Qur'anic recitation circle is also the pleasure of eating and ‘being one big family’ through consumption. Scholars have noted the significance of food-sharing and inter-household food exchange as a source of security and community building in Southeast Asia (Cadelina Reference Cadelina1982; Cahyani et al. Reference Cahyani, Karsidi and Kartono2019; Janowski and Kerlogue Reference Janowski and Kerlogue2007). Hosted on the PonPes veranda, Qur'anic recitation attendees are usually greeted with hot beverages, gorengan (fritters), sweets, and packaged water. While eating at PonPes Al-Fatah, waria and more dominant members of the Indonesian society, such as male ustadz and cis-gender neighbors, can blend together and enjoy each other's company. This breaks down normative assumptions about their socio-religious distinction. Every Sunday at PonPes Al-Fatah, not only can waria feed their souls by worshipping alongside their community members and allies, they can also benefit nutritionally from sharing meals.

However, PonPes Al-Fatah's generosity in providing food fails to address the root of waria's food insecurity: ‘the struggle to purchase sembako’ (groceries). To mitigate this problem, Ibu Shinta initiated a ‘home farming’ programme as a ‘sustainable solution (solusi jangka panjang).’ She claimed:

In 2020, when the pandemic was first spreading, ‘PonPes Al-Fatah was able to provide basic groceries to the community, but it eventually began running out of funds to feed the entire community.’ This sparked Ibu Shinta's idea to develop a home farming initiative in 2022, where PonPes Al-Fatah reached out to an organization that specializes in training farmers how to plant crops in non-ideal natural environments. Facilitators from the organization can thus introduce ways for waria to utilize non-productive soil like ‘dry or wet beach lands,’ thereby maximizing their capacity to produce food at home. The initiative's primary goal is ‘for waria households to grow basic ingredients, spices, and vegetables on whatever small piece of bare land available in their home.’ Some waria communities in Yogyakarta live in alternative homes, together as a nonbiological family, allowing Ibu Shinta to mobilize major waria households to participate in the programme with the hope of increasing waria's overall access to daily sustenance throughout the city.

By Ibu Shinta's testimonies, it is evident that, since the pandemic, food insecurity has severely impacted waria's ability to exercise their basic human right to ‘the highest attainable standard of health’ (Ayala and Meier Reference Ayala and Meier2017: 1). Through the home farming programme, waria have stepped out of their comfort zone to reimagine food distribution and contribute to ‘agricultural change’ (Rosol and Rosol Reference Rosol and Rosol2022). Despite looming anxieties about unanticipated climate-related issues like drought or running out of funds, waria from PonPes Al-Fatah have demonstrated subversive modes (e.g., food sharing, maximizing bare soil, and establishing an inter-household food distribution system) of expanding their basic rights to daily sustenance in times of uncertainty.

Waria Crisis Center: Vulnerable Bodies and New Health Strategies

In 2022, I attended the launch of an elderly care programme at Waria Crisis Center (WCC), a lively event attended by local officials, NGO representatives, academic collaborators, neighbours, religious leaders, and waria activists. WCC serves primarily elderly waria and is located in Bantul, a location farther away from the city centre and surrounded by green rice fields. Community members at WCC have claimed that ‘the location was chosen because many elderly waria want to have a more peaceful life, away from city life.’ Partnering with a feminist organization (VOICE), a mental health counseling provider (ERAT), and an inclusionary social service organization (PKBI DIY), WCC's eldery care programme offers secular services to vulnerable waria populations; such services include emergency shelter, mental health counselling, and healthcare.

WCC is managed by Ibu Yuli,Footnote ⁴ a waria activist who served as the director of Trans Empowerment at PonPes Al-Fatah. Described by Ibu Shinta as an ‘angel walking this earth’ and a PonPes member as ‘the most nurturing mother,’ Ibu Yuli was a grounding presence in the community and had incredible skills in Qur'anic recitation. As WCC's coordinator, Ibu Yuli worked closely with Ibu Shinta; their work turned them into some of the most authoritative figures in the Yogyakarta waria activist scene. In our interactions, I learned about Ibu Yuli's humanitarian qualities. After discovering that I am native to Aceh, a region hit by a major Tsunami in 2004, Ibu Yuli then opened up to me and shared that she had visited Aceh as a Tsunami volunteer, where she stayed in various areas to assist waria Tsunami victims. Having done decades of activism, Ibu Yuli is a well-respected figure in the community and has a special gift of connecting people from all walks of life.

Because of WCC, waria in need can access therapists and get health checkups. Importantly, a significant portion of waria affiliated with PonPes Al-Fatah and WCC are elderly needing special attention for their psychological and physical needs. Scholars have reported an increase in vigilante attacks targeting transgender individuals in public spaces since 2016 (Rodriguez Reference Rodriguez2019; Toomistu Reference Toomistu2022), a reality that has created a persistent feeling of vulnerability among waria. Such attacks have also manifested in numerous ways within the current anti-LGBTQ climate, including public mockery, direct physical attacks, and hatred spewed on social media. Scholars have argued that transphobia, as a contemporary phenomenon, has intensified psychological distress among transgender individuals (Klemmer et al. Reference Klemmer, Arayasirikul and Raymond2021); transgender women are especially subjected to direct acts of violence (Elliot and Lyons Reference Elliot and Lyons2017). As an advocate of elderly waria's rights to healthcare and counselling, WCC is a model of how the growing advocacy towards trans elderly care around the world (Cook-Daniels Reference Cook-Daniels, Harley and Teaster2016; Ettner et al. Reference Ettner, Monstrey and Coleman2013) is taking shape in Yogyakarta.

In addition to elderly care, WCC also provides emergency shelter for waria in unique precarious situations. Ibu Shinta claimed that many transgender women in Indonesia are ostracized by their biological family, pushing them to seek emergency support ‘until they can pick themselves back up.’ She also added that some individuals fall into abusive relationships and have had their money stolen by ‘cunning men,’ forcing them into homelessness and facing danger on the streets. During one of the Qur'anic recitation circles at PonPes Al-Fatah, I sat next to Karla,Footnote ⁵ a young waria who had just begun living in WCC emergency shelter. Karla had rosy make-up applied to her face and had joined the elementary Qur'anic alphabet lesson at PonPes Al-Fatah. Seemingly shy at first, she quickly warmed up to me as we reunited again at WCC. After kindly offering to make me a cup of coffee, Karla opened up about her life. She said that she came from Sulawesi, but that her father had banished her from home because of her failure to perform as the ‘first son.’ In Sulawesi, Karla claimed that it is customary for fathers to pass inheritance on to their firstborn, and she felt deeply saddened by her father's choice to uproot her from properties, which she claimed were her ‘birthright.’

When she moved to Yogyakarta, Karla dabbled in sex work and explained that she felt affirmed in her ‘beauty’ through sexual encounters. However, she admitted that ‘men took advantage [of her] and often stole [her] belongings, but [she] could not help but to get back with them despite most of them having real relationships with women.’ She thus sought help from WCC after experiencing yet another incident of having her money stolen by a ‘boyfriend.’ She then whispered to me that she has also secretly sought the help of a dukun to ‘get her money and man back,’ a detail she had kept to herself because she is ‘breaking Islamic rules.’ (Dukun means various things in Indonesia and can refer to indigenous medicinal specialists, as well as someone believed to possess a spiritual power to contact spirits, predict the future, and make something happen [either negative or positive] to a person [Wessing Reference Wessing1996; Woodward Reference Woodward and Woodward2011]). Curious about her motivations to contact a dukun, I asked another question, and she gave me a cheeky smile and said, ‘it works kak (sis), my boyfriend begged for me to take him back, but the money is still not returned.’ Karla's story illuminates the precarity of transgender women who have lost familial support and access to security generally, causing them to remain in toxic relationships to feel some semblance of legitimacy — a dynamic of ‘entrapment’ commonly identified in cases of domestic violence (Herbert et al. Reference Herbert, Silver and Ellard1991; Landenburger Reference Landenburger1989). While Karla has been able to gain temporary security through WCC, it is difficult to speculate whether waria individuals, whose precarious position is shaped by multiple socio–emotional–psychological factors like Karla, could fully step out of cycles of entrapment without further institutional support or greater societal awareness around waria's experience of gender-related violence.

To assist waria dealing with family ostracization and nonetheless still desiring to build relationships with their family, PonPes Al-Fatah also initiated a ‘family support’ programme. Family support hosts ‘fun events’ for waria and their family, as well as provides mediators to minimize potential harm in waria's attempt to communicate with family members. Alongside WCC, PonPes Al-Fatah has been able to strengthen its welfare advocacy for vulnerable populations, such as elderly waria and those dealing with social alienation, thereby illuminating the institution's efforts to expand its original mission to provide religious services. In other words, while waria can access PonPes Al-Fatah as a safe space to conduct Islamic worship, precarious waria experiencing a multitude of socio-psychological issues can also find non-spiritual means of support; these include therapy, health check-ups, and temporary shelter.

Alternative Job Training: Financial Independence and Personal Dignity

In addition to concerns around food, shelter, and healthcare, the spread of COVID-19 has also created difficulties for waria to find sustainable means of income to support themselves holistically in Yogyakarta. In the summer of 2022, Ibu Shinta also initiated an educational programme, called ‘alternative job training,’ through PonPes Al-Fatah to expand waria's capacity for financial independence. Ibu Shinta claimed that this programme is crafted specifically for ‘younger waria who still predominantly rely on [unsustainable jobs] to get by like sex work and busking.’ She added that she often feels concerned about the lives of younger waria, who ‘have not developed enough spiritual awakening and attend regular activities at PonPes Al-Fatah’ due to their preoccupations with romantic relationships and being or feeling beautiful. Ibu Shinta clarified that she ‘does not judge waria who choose a path of sex work because [she] is familiar with that world’ in her youth. However, as a community leader, she believes that sex work and busking are not ‘bermartabat’ (dignified, honorable) and do not provide long-term financial stability. Therefore, her goal with the alternative job training programme was to introduce waria to occupations and entrepreneurial strategies that would not only create financial security for them, but also impart societal honour and respect.

It is important to contextualize the expression, bermartabat, in Ibu Shinta's aforementioned testimony. This word carries a nuance of bias about what constitutes dignity, a notion that adhers to a particular, traditional Indonesian cultural perspective that reflects the honour–shame dichotomy in Indonesia's founding ideas about morality. Affect theorist Sara Ahmed (2014a)) argued that the mobilization of emotions, such as pride and shame, in social movements or national politics is significant for cultural constructions of identity, morality, and citizen belonging. In the context of Muslim-majority societies like Indonesia and Egypt, anthropologists have underscored how the workings of honour–shame culture shapes norms around gender and power; in such contexts, feminized bodies are perceived as sites of honour that need safeguarding, thereby creating myriad pressures for women to embody morality and piety in their daily conduct (Abu-Lughod Reference Abu-Lughod1986; Brenner Reference Brenner2011; Rinaldo Reference Rinaldo2011; Röttger-Rössler Reference Röttger-Rössler, Markowitsch and Röttger-Rössler2009). The Islamic ideology around honour, which significantly shapes notions of morality and piety, is an important element of PonPes Al-Fatah's mission as a trans-led Islamic boarding school. Ibu Shinta claimed that ‘the core mission of PonPes Al-Fatah is to transform waria into responsible Muslim citizens, who are accountable to their family, society, neighbors, and communities.’ In Ibu Shinta's view, waria must eventually transcend their limitations and see themselves beyond societal scripts that place them in the lowest rank of society, which is done through ‘being moral and emphasizing dignity in their occupations.’

In addition to these moral reasonings, the alternative job training programme also aims to spark new interest and creative energy among waria to seek out jobs that ‘do not exclusively rely on (ketergantungan) men’ or romantic encounters. Ibu Shinta claimed that ‘waria who do not have sources of income outside the realm of sex often get themselves in personal troubles that force them to overspend beyond their means,’ such as ‘taking care of unemployed boyfriends’ and ‘taking out loans’ they cannot repay. In contrast, alternative jobs introduced to waria include ‘make-up artists, masseuse, traditional Javanese dance teachers, bakers, and entrepreneurs.’ PonPes Al-Fatah has planned to contact waria entrepreneurs and other collaborators to facilitate trainings. The alternative job programme also hopes to offer a ‘responsible financial management’ course to teach crucial skills like microfinance, opening a bank account, allocating monthly savings, and writing grants — all of which are necessary for waria's financial independence in times of uncertainty.

By immersing myself in the PonPes Al-Fatah community, I learned about waria entrepreneurship in the city and met a few waria small business owners. Their narratives illustrate the success of waria who have been able to achieve financial independence by having sustainable means of income. First, I met Bunga,Footnote ⁶ who owns a t-shirt business that she co-managed with her siblings. She also worked for another organization that focuses on HIV/AIDS prevention. One day, Bunga invited me to visit her store, which is operated from her home. Riding my motorcycle through Yogyakarta's streets to visit her, I found myself lost in a steep, narrow alley that led me to a group of older men standing by cages of birds next to a kali (walled riverbank). They helped redirect me to Bunga's home. Upon arrival, I introduced myself to her sisters, who were busy sewing. Her living room was packed with sewing machines, clothing racks displaying her t-shirt collections, and packaging items. As we drank coffee and ate fried tempe, Bunga showed me her t-shirt collections, explaining new patterns they had recently brainstormed. She proudly shared that she had received requests, both from LGBTQ organizations and from individuals in Bali, Bandung, and other Indonesian cities. Despite financial difficulties caused by COVID-19, she could still ‘sell her commodities online through platforms like Instagram, Shopee, and Tokopedia,’ which allowed her to continue earning income throughout the pandemic.

The second entrepreneur I met was Ratih,Footnote ⁷ who headed up one of Yogyakarta's oldest waria organizations, which used to be chaired by Ibu Shinta. Ratih is an avid cook and was thus aspired to open a café. During my preliminary fieldwork, she told me that she was ‘taking a break from her food business due to other work obligations, but planned to revive it when she has more time.’ Some waria I met raved about Ratih's food, claiming that she is ‘one of the best cooks’ they know. When I asked Ratih about what sparked her interest in cooking, she laughed and said, ‘I love eating and all I can do all day every day is eat.’ She added that, in her free time, she loves going all around Yogyakarta to find ‘the best spots for street food.’ In fact, she had a list of ‘best spots for almost every single popular Indonesian dish,’ including bakso, sate, mie ayam, and others. Ratih has also taught Javanese dances to people in a variety of arts centres. I even had the chance to see her showcase her dancing skills during a Christian waria solidarity event, where, at the end of the event, waria came forward and danced to a Javanese pop song.

Both Bunga's and Ratih's cases illuminate the expansive possibilities that waria can have in Yogyakarta when given the right platform to express creativity and the opportunity to master their chosen skills. Individuals like them are role models to waria also seeking to achieve mobility and gain security, particularly under conditions of financial hardship and other socio–psychological vulnerabilities as they navigate life in Yogyakarta.