An excerpt from my dissertation on ‘traditional’ same-sex eroticisms in Indonesian fiction – Part 2

First in the series of excerpts from my MA dissertation I looked at the tolerant attitudes toward homoerotic relations in Indonesian religious boarding schools as depicted in the novel Mairil. Below I explore the way the Indonesian tradition of the gemblak and warok relationship is framed in a novel by Enang Rokajat Asura. Unlike Mairil, however, homoerotic relationships in Gemblak are portrayed as problematic and in tension with the demands of “modern” codes of sexual norms:

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One of the most enduring figures in Indonesian non-normative sexual traditions is the warok-gemblak relationship. The warok is part master of ceremonies and leader of the reyog, a theatrical performance unique to the rural East Javanese province of Ponorogo, and part power broker (Wilson 1999 – web article). Intimate same-sex relationships between men were condoned and accepted as normal for unmarried men in Ponorogo up until recently, while extra-marital heterosexual relationships were seen as morally and spiritually corrupting. According to one warok, “association with women will cause brittle bones, a soft stomach and a loss of spiritual strength,” adding “that’s why I’ve grown to be a man who harbours a hatred of women (ibid). The basis of the warok’s homoerotic relations with his gemblak lies in the polluting nature of heterosexual intercourse with women. The warok forfeits sexual relations with the opposite sex to preserve his spiritual power. As believed in the Tantrayana Buddhist tradition from which warok/gemblak practices originate, sperm is considered a central source of power which can be converted into a higher level of consciousness. Thus, it serves as an ascetic ritual that promotes sexual abstinence and transforms erotic desire into spiritual attainment. In place of a wife or female partner the warok has a gemblak, or a young boy who acts as companion and intimate partner, as well as jatilan dancer in his reyog troupe (ibid).

The gemblak is normally chosen for his poise and physical appearance, characterised typically as androgynous and light in facial complexion which is sometimes enhanced with face powder (Wilson 1999: web article). A beautiful gemblak is a matter of immense pride for the warok whom he would dress in the finest of clothes. Youth is a determining factor to becoming a gemblak as well, as the gemblak is usually between the ages of eight and sixteen years. During performances, the gemblak is sometimes known to dress in feminine attire, such as the kebaya blouse, a wrap-around skirt (jarik batik), and a scarf (sampur or selendang; Kartomi 1976: 87). In selecting a gemblak, the warok would send a delegation to the home of the boy’s parents to “propose” (lamar), similar in ritualised speech used in traditional heterosexual weddings. For the boy’s “hand”, his parents would be paid in the form of livestock, one for each year of the boy’s time as the warok‘s gemblak (Wilson 1999: web article).

During one’s time as gemblak, he is supplied with food, clothing, and even formal education, thus such an arrangement poses economic benefits for many poor villagers in addition to attaining considerable social prestige and protection of the warok. Mirroring the heteronormative set-up at home, the gemblakperforms the domestic chores for the waroksuch as washing and cooking, besides being his constant companion. Being a gemblakis accepted as a certain stage in one’s path to manhood for many young boys, and go on to stay with their warok until their late teens. The warok played an active role in choosing the gemblak‘s wife and in many cases performed the religious rites at the wedding. On marriage, the gemblak‘s attractiveness to men is said to diminish (ibid). It is worthwhile to note that it may be imprecise to classify the warok-gemblak relationship as homosexual, as being a warok is part of a profession that involves sexual asceticism, and does not necessarily denote a selfhood organised around sexual desire (Boellstorff 2005:45).

Published in 2008, Gemblak: Tragedi Cinta Budak Homoseks (Gemblak: The Tragic Love of a Homosexual Slave) tells the story of Sapto Linggo, a young man who escapes the reyog to marry his sweetheart. As a gemblak, Sapto was barred from forming intimate relationships with women and other men. The warok, Hardo Wiseso, is respected by villagers as a wealthy benefactor of young boys who become his gemblak but is greatly feared for his spiritual powers and the use of his whip (usus-usus), which no one dares challenge. By eloping, Sapto turns his back on a tradition he feels immoral and un-Islamic. His wife, Lastri, however, is the warok’s daughter and their union is wrought with guilt and doubt about its legitimacy. Without the blessing of Lastri’s father, their marriage is feared by Sapto to be susceptible to doom. Upon learning the news of his younger brother, Prapto’s proposal to become his former warok’s gemblak. Sapto returns to his village and his desire to end the warok-gemblak practice is ignited. Like Sapto, Prapto is very handsome and is poised, like his older brother, to become the warok’s favourite gemblak.

The efforts of Sapto to end an “abominable” tradition (perbuatan terkutuk) of the warok-gemblak relationship is framed as a heroic feat. Prapto is eventually rescued but this elicits the anger of the warok who assaults the physically fragile Sapto with his whip. But Sapto’s beating is interrupted by the presence of his friend, the shaman Legong Kamplok, who challenges Hardo Wiseso in a keris1 fight. Hardo Wiseso is killed during the struggle and Sapto’s mission is ostensibly accomplished. However, all does not end happily for Sapto and his wife when their first child is born with congenital defects. The baby, Toeggoel, has an oversized head with bulging eyes, suspected to have polio, has “black” skin, and is covered in hair (tubuh anaknya dipenuhi bulu yang lebat). Sapto is convinced that the birth of such an unusual child is somehow connected to his past as a gemblak, eloping with his employer’s daughter, and getting married without a wali2, which goes on to implicitly suggest that the child may be illegitimate. The novel ends on a sombre note: several years later, Sapto gains employment as a teacher, and is a farmer on the side to make ends meet. He has also written a novel based on the life of his child, Toenggoel. However, his earnings are not enough to fund Toenggoel’s medical treatment and he is barred from inheriting Hardo Wiseso’s wealth. His struggles to end the warok-gemblak tradition had come with a heavy price. The “dark” days of his past as a gemblak are “imprinted” on his son’s physical disabilities; they form a reminder of a tradition that will not cease to cause the suffering of many young men. In the end, Sapto descends into deep depression and is haunted by the menacing voices of his warokfrom beyond the grave.

Analysis:

Sapto’s tale is told against the transformation of a sleepy rural life into a village marked with different tell-tale signs of modernity. Homes previously made from bamboo are replaced with concrete walls. Villagers begin to have access to television, many have satellite dishes planted on their rooftops. Before, there were no means of personal transportation, now the villagers own cars and pick-up lorries. These transformations are a welcoming sight for Sapto. The changes sweeping Sapto’s village appear to reflect his opinions with regard to traditional practices of the reyog and other homoerotic traditions. Religious concerns about homosexuality surface following Sapto’s exposure to Islamic reading material and discussions with those he deems more knowledgeable:

Sebahagian pengetahuan tentang agama yang diperolehinya dari hasil membaca dan diskusi dengan orang yang lebih pinter tentang itu, menjadikan Sapto semakin gelisah. Persekutuan antara lelaki dengan lelaki menurut pemahaman agamanya adalah perbuatan sia-sia dan dibenci Tuhan. (p. 39)

(My translation):

Being informed about religion obtained from reading and discussions with those more learned in religious matters caused Sapto to worry. Intimacy between men according to his faith is frivolous and an abomination.

Without the access to higher education, books, and like-minded people, Sapto would not have known about the modern society at large that disapproves of same-sex relations. For him, young men and their parents should not have to submit to the demands of the warok given the financial opportunity. Villagers have long been tied to the reyog tradition because of the economic returns and protection the warok provides. But the arrival of modernity to the village should bring new ambitions and opportunities that were previously denied to them and the impetus for breaking with oppressive traditions. In time, new values will replace old ones, and homoerotic traditions may eventually become extinct. But the future is an ambivalent place, muses Sapto, as traditions can survive by adapting different ways to cling to the present and even hybridise into new forms:

[…] tiba-tiba saja Sapto ingin jadi tua, memutar cepat jarun hidupnya agar bisa mengetahui apakah kebiasaan itu akan terus berlanjut atau akan dengan sendirinya mati seiring perkembangan rasionalisasi dari pelakunya. Sapto seperti ingin hidup dalam sepuluh tahun ke depan, agar bisa memastikan tanggapan orang pada tradisi penggemblakan itu. Sapto pernah membaca artikel, bahwa sebenarnya pikiran-pikiran ortodok, primitif tidak semuanya mati dan terkubur masa tapi kini hadir dalam modifikasi zaman. Ia pun jadi khawatir perlakuan gemblak itu akan menemukan tempat yang baru dalam sebuah modifikasi, maka semakin panjanglah penderitaan itu. (pp. 35-36)

(My translation):

Suddenly Sapto wishes to become older, and to turn the clock forward to learn if the (reyog) tradition will last or will perish on its own as its practitioners become more rational. Sapto wishes to live ten years in the future to discover society’s attitudes towards the gemblak tradition. Sapto had once read an article which said that not all orthodox and primitive ideas die and become forgotten but continue to survive through modifications to suit the times. He fears the gemblak tradition will serve a new purpose by adapting contemporary norms, thereby prolonging the gemblak’s suffering.

Sapto’s anxieties exhibit a markedly melancholic portrait of manhood. The challenges of modernity have cast a grim shadow on traditional dimensions of masculinity and male (hetero)sexuality. Melancholy manhood is born when a loss or crisis of old conceptions of manhood has taken place but has not been accompanied with the adequate psychosocial and hermeneutic readjustment necessary for its resolution (Butler 1995:27-28). In the case of Sapto, an awareness of “modern” homosexuality raises a crisis of masculinity and his sense of self that are deeply intertwined with “traditional” male homoeroticism. As he leaves tradition he is thrust into unfamiliar psychosocial territory where a new form of masculinity must somehow be constructed, a form of masculinity that is perceived to be under threat by male homosexuality. His uniquely masculine anxiety with regard to homosexuality in Indonesia as an element of modernisation embodies the political homophobia pervading the country in recent years (Boellstorff 2004:480). Coded as masculine, political homophobia is enacted on non-normative male sexualities as a reaction to the socio-political uncertainties that are imagined to threaten the “manhood” of the nation (ibid:481-482).

In contemporary Indonesia, as in much of Southeast Asia, many variants of transgendering and same-sex relations have been redefined as contaminating rather than sacred mediators and as a result subjected to processes of secularisation and stigmatisation. The condemnation of non-normative gender and sexual behaviour reflects the changing moral standards brought about by the perceived demands of modernisation (modernisasi) and development (pembangunan) (Peletz 2009:216). The official opinion held by the local government with regard to the warok-gemblak relationship is that it is immoral and in conflict with the ‘national personality’ (kepribadian bangsa), mainly because it is viewed as nothing more than “socialised homosexuality” and thus a risk to the social order (Wibowo 1996:3). These views are echoed by modern reformist groups such as Muhammadiyah and prominent kyai from the well-known pesantren Pondok Modern Darussalam who have pressured the Ponorogo local government to suppress the reyog tradition to accommodate their brand of religious ideals (Wilson 1999: web article). Today, the reyog is a dying art due to the influence of state run education systems that dissuade young boys from participating, and the emphasis on the construction of the heterosexual nuclear family as the foundation of the nation (ibid).

Despite these developments, queer Indonesians (mainly men) find tradition a space to establish a sense of belonging and footing in culture and history (Boellstorff 2004:470). References to tradition are often accompanied with invocations of the past, both real and imagined. In her work on the traditional cross-dressing practices of the bissu in Southern Sulawesi, Sharyn Graham Davies highlights the ways present day bissu evoke a more tolerant past in which their cultural forebears played key roles in royal courts and guarding the sacred regalia (Davies 2010:76-84). Recounting the past acts as an empowering strategy through which the bissu confirm not merely their existence in society but also allows them to stake a claim in national history, a discourse of belonging. It is important, however, to note that not all gay Indonesians find any meaningful connection with traditional homosexual practices, past or present. Instead of legitimating their sexualities through history, some homosexual Indonesians claim belonging and authenticity by the performance of good deeds (prestasi) in the present (Boellstorff 2005:35). Others may be more interested in distancing themselves from what are considered old-fashioned ideas of homosexuality, particularly those that refer to cross-gendering as a characteristic. For instance, men who identify themselves as gay will sometimes vehemently distinguish themselves from banci or waria (terms that, besides signifying transgender identities, also describe effeminate men, and, occasionally, masculine women) (Oetomo 1996:260-261). Those who do turn to tradition can vicariously enjoy the legitimacy certain same-sex practices can sometimes bring, particularly when such traditions, as in the case of homosexuality in the pesantren, are tied with Islam and respectability.

But such claims for authenticity are not without problems. While compelling, they are anthropologically problematic as it often refashions Western, twentieth century identity categories such as “homosexual” into local discourse in anachronistic ways, rendering such claims analytically and factually dubious (Stychin 2004:958). The pitfalls of seeking an authentic gay utopian past looms large, as “’traditional culture’ is increasingly recognised to be more an invention constructed for contemporary purposes than a stable heritage handed on from the past” (Hanson 1989:899). Recuperating “traditional” homoeroticisms risks the Western romanticism of a tolerant and accepting non-Western society, masking the reality of persecution, discrimination, and violence that may have occurred in the past and continue to do so on a daily basis for many sexual minorities today. Not only does conventional understanding of tradition posits a false dichotomy between tradition and modernity as fixed and mutually exclusive states, but it also reproduces the conception that the West is the source of liberated gay and lesbian identities while traditional (often read as non-Western) remains in the clutches of backwardness (Grewal and Kaplan 2001:665).

Tradition, however, is not a static body of practices and beliefs passed down from one generation to another. Rather, it is an on-going interpretation of the past that reflects contemporary concerns. As Jocelyn Linnekin asserts, “the selection of what constitutes tradition is always made in the present; the content of the past is modified and redefined according to a modern significance” (1983:241). Only certain elements of the past are selected in the creation of tradition. These chosen elements can be situated in different contexts where they gain new meanings for those involved in the process (Handler and Linnekin 1984:280). In response, one can argue that historical accuracy is not particularly the point, because as a political rhetoric it commands the rewriting and re-imagination of a nation’s history in more inclusive terms. And from a Foucauldian standpoint, such discourses can be mobilised into a political reality.

Endnotes:

1A traditional dagger

2A male witness at an Islamic wedding ceremony, usually the bride’s father.

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Forbidden Love: Indonesian LGBT book covers

The following are just a few of the many books I will have to plough through this summer.

Cinta Terlarang – Sebuah Novel Untuk Dewasa (Forbidden Love – A Novel For Adults) by Andre Aciman. Synopsis (translated from Indonesian by yours truly):

Elio, a young Italian man, has fallen head over heals for Oliver, his American guest over the summer. Disturbed by his “unnatural” feelings for Oliver, Elio tries hard to ignore them. Despite having extraordinary good looks, being popular with ladies and a great conversationalist on the topic of books, Elio prefers being a bit of a loner. Unbelievably, however, Oliver reciprocates but soon returns home to marry a woman. Betrayed, Elio cuts all ties with his summer fling but deep within his heart, his love for Oliver isn’t that easy to extinguish. He spends year after year trying to convince himself that their love wans’t just a summer fling.

“Cinta Itu Tidak Dosa”- Sketsa Perjalanan Cinta Terlarang, Kumpulan Puisi (“Love Is Not a Sin” – Sketches of Forbidden Love, A Collection of Poems) by Y.F.Nata

Perempuan Semusim – Kisah Nyata Metamorfosa Lesbian ke Heteroseksual (A Woman for a Season – The True Story of a Metamorphosis from Lesbian to a Heterosexual Woman) by Amitri Dinar Sari.

Mairil – Sepenggal Kisah Biru di Pesentren (Mairil – An X-rated Story in a Islamic School) by Syarifuddin

Gemblak – Tragedi Cinta Budak Homoseks (Gemblak – The Tragic Love of a Homosexual Slave) by Enang Rok Ajat Asura.

Beri Aku Dunia – Banci Juga Manusia (Give Me a World – Transsexuals Are Also People) by Andy Stevenio

‘Cinta Terlarang’ is certainly a theme here. Now we have Cinta terlarang, Cinta Terindah – Sebuah Novel (Forbidden Love, The Most Beautiful Love – A Novel) by L. Benako Aksara.

A bumpy road, just like Malaysian sexual politics: A review of Body 2 Body – A Malaysian Queer Anthology

Body 2 body (2009) is the product of Malaysia’s young, hip and well-connected who’ve banded together to compile a collection of short stories and essays on living la vida non-normative. Edited by local art scene stalwarts Jerome Kugan and Pang Khee Teik, Body 2 Body is a landmark of sorts, mainly as the first anthology of local LGBT writing and as tangible evidence of Malaysia emerging out of the dark ages. Unfortunately, eclipsing this Book-of-Records significance is the violently uneven standard of writing. At times reasonably good (Brian Gomez and Shahnon Shah’s) but jaw-droppingly appalling in others (Abirami Durai and Jerome Kugan’s).

To begin with, Brian Gomez’s ‘What do gay people eat?’ is a cracking tale of parental ignorance transformed into heart-warming acceptance. Gomez brings to life his central characters, a pair of middle-aged Indian parents who are about to welcome their son and his boyfriend to home-cooked food for the first time. Agonising about what gay people eat (hint: not traditional Indian food as initially presumed), the dad soon learns that yes, gay people are just like everybody else and are not transported en masse from “the West”. At many turns funny and true to life, Gomez sets a fine example of a well-executed short story, something sadly not followed by others in Body 2 Body.

Don’t let a short story fool you into thinking it’s literary child’s play. The first rule in writing one, however, is simple: a good short story should not betray it’s primary descriptor: “short” (a memo Joyce did not read when he wrote The Dead). And because it is constrained by brevity, a good short story should also effectively evoke a moment in time and not a saga stretched out in six pages.

Overall, all the entries in this anthology do not have a problem with being short and sweet. The quality of story-telling in a few contributions, however, leaves plenty to be desired. Jerome Kugan’s ‘Alvin’ about an on-and-off relationship between two hard-partying men is more like a poorly edited film with arty pretensions than an engagingly-written story. The couple, Alvin and Jay, share some relationship highs like tender conversations after sex, and lows like lack of commitment, and soon drift apart without proper goodbyes as moody anti-romantics do. To end his postmodern romance, Kugan’s epilogue for Alvin and Jay reads like a kinky French-Spanish film played on fast-forward:

A year later, Alvin and Jay are a couple, sharing an apartment in Mont Kiara. After a few months of lousy sex, they decide to have an open relationship. Jay meets Gochi, 26yo hottie originally from Singapore but working in KL to be closer to his mature Japanese expat boyfriend. Jay has sex with Gochi and offers threesome [sic] with Alvin. Alvin protests at first but after threesome [sic], confesses that he has fallen in love with Gochi. Jay is devastated, think it’s his fault, goes to Frangipani to get drunk. While drunk, he meets 40yo Hansen and 28yo Maria, a bisexual couple from London. Jay has sex with Maria while Hansen watches and masturbates. Later, Hansen fucks Jay while Maria sucks his cock. Jay is moaning as he is fucked, thinking of Alvin.

Charming.

Abirami Durai’s ‘Have you seen my son?’ shows great promise of being about trans-acceptance but is impeded by a flimsy sequence of improbable events and cliches: Alex is returning home from studying abroad and as friends and family do, they welcome the return of the prodigal son with bated breath at the airport. But it’s Anna who returns, not Alex. The shock and surprise of a transgender homecoming is severely offset by Anna’s entire family and friends not recognising her at all save for our narrator, Anna’s best friend. The two return to Anna’s home separately after her familyandfriends shuffle quietly back into the cardboard cut-out where they come from. There, we see Anna packing her old stuff to leave the family home for good because being literally invisible to her parents is much too unpleasant. As old friends do, the narrator and Anna reminisce about old flames until the dad suddenly walks in and asks Anna about Alex’s whereabouts. This leads to Durai’s ambiguous message on pseudo trans-accceptance; Anna’s dad is still clueless (or in denial or just visually impaired?) that she’s really his son, but compliments on how pretty she looks instead. At least he thinks she’s pretty! That’s gotta be good, right? Right?

Perhaps quirkiness verging on the surreal is a new and uniquely Malaysian writing style that I’ve yet to come to grips with. And maybe the schlock of the new will eventually herald substance and maturity. A bumpy road of a read made up of an uneven mix of good and substandard writing may one day smoothen out by work that are published not because they were the only ones lying around the editors’ desk. Body 2 body is nonetheless a praiseworthy effort in putting non-normative genders and sexualities on the local literary map, but the schoolteacher critic in me cannot refrain from saying, “Can do better!”.