The Heteronormative Family as Moral Infrastructure: Citizenship and National Belonging in Indonesia

=== [PDF page 1] === NORTHWESTERN UNIVERSITY The Heteronormative Family as Moral Infrastructure: Citizenship and National Belonging in Indonesia A DISSERTATION SUBMITTED TO THE GRADUATE SCHOOL IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS for the degree DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY Field of Sociology Mirna Nadia EVANSTON, ILLINOIS December 2025 === [PDF page 2] === Abstract In this dissertation, I examine how citizenship and national belonging intertwine with the construction of an ideal family in Indonesia, focusing on how the state defines a “proper” citizen and, in doing so, who gets excluded. I argue that the heteronormative family serves as a moral infrastructure, both a normative ideal (what citizens should be) and a technology of governance (how they are managed), through which the state governs intimate life and legitimizes political authority. Exclusion from full citizenship is not incidental but intrinsic to how the family and the nation are collectively imagined. Drawing on discourse analysis, I trace how the boundaries of citizenship are constituted through cultural scripts surrounding the family and the nation itself. I begin with the Marriage Law, where contestations over family formation that unfolded during its formulation mirror struggles over how the nation-state is imagined. Shifting authority over family and intimate life from religions and local customs to the state, the Marriage Law codifies and further institutionalizes heterosexual (primarily monogamous) marriage as the sole legitimate pathway to adulthood and recognition. It also reinforces gendered roles within the family, defining the husband as the breadwinner and the wife as the homemaker. Since its enactment, these normative assumptions have effectively defined who counts as a “proper” citizen and continued to underpin state policies and practices governing intimacy in Indonesia. Similar to other infrastructures, the moral infrastructure operates like background programming, becoming visible only in moments of breakdown or contestation. In such moments, what is at stake is not only how family and intimate life are defined but also the moral order and boundaries of citizenship and national belonging. My dissertation analyzes two cases that === [PDF page 3] === exemplify these moments: first, the judicial review petition by the conservative pro-family group Aliansi Cinta Keluarga (AILA), and second, the proposed Family Resilience Bill, which together test the limits and durability of the moral infrastructure. I show how the vision of moral citizenship anchored in the heteronormative family is articulated and how affective rhetorics of protection, virtue, and national resilience are used to justify exclusionary state regulation. These initiatives reveal that the “ideal family” and, by extension, the “proper” citizen are not fixed ideals but rather constantly renegotiated and potentially reconfigured through political struggles as well as legal and political debates. Finally, I examine how the heteronormative family as a moral infrastructure operates, shaping the lives of two disadvantaged groups who fall outside it: women heads of household and LGBT individuals. Comparing the two groups highlights how their distinct forms of nonconformity result in divergent trajectories of exclusion. Women heads of household are more easily integrated into development programs as exceptional subjects, their recognition conditional on vulnerability and productivity. Conversely, the LGBT individuals are largely illegible, erased, and repressed. This dissertation aims to contribute to broader discussions about gender, sexuality, and citizenship by offering moral infrastructure as an analytical lens. It approaches citizenship as a political process that goes beyond legal status and recognition, and seeks to affirm the right to live otherwise as meaningful forms of belonging. By attending to how people live lives beyond the heteronormative ideal, it reveals both the limitations of state recognition and the creative possibilities that endure in spite of them. === [PDF page 4] === Acknowledgements It took me many years to finish my dissertation, while life kept on happening with a series of interruptions. Along the way, I have incurred many debts to my teachers, colleagues, families, and friends that I could not possibly mention one by one. I am deeply fortunate to have received the generous support from the Arryman Scholars Initiative that made it possible for me to pursue a doctoral degree at Northwestern University. This dissertation was carried out under the auspices of the Initiative, with support from the Asia Research Centre (ARC-UI) during my fieldwork and funding from the Indonesian Scholarship and Research Support Foundation (ISRSF), the American-Indonesian Cultural and Educational Foundation (AICEF), the Sexualities Project at Northwestern (SPAN), the Graduate School (TGS), and the Department of Sociology at Northwestern University. I owe immense gratitude to Professor Ann Orloff, my advisor, who introduced me to many of the works I lean on in this dissertation. I am equally grateful to Professor Jeffrey Winters for pushing me to pursue my intellectual curiosity since the day of my scholarship interview almost a decade ago and to Professor Laura Hein, who offered generous comments and went above and beyond to ensure that I could somehow graduate. I am deeply indebted to Professor Héctor Carillo, who graciously agreed to read my drafts and offer support when I needed it most. My journey in graduate school is also shaped by my friends and colleagues whom I’ve met through Arryman Scholars Initiatives, the Department of Sociology, the Asian Studies Graduate Cluster at Northwestern, the Feminist Graduate Working Group, the House of Abundance Reading Group, the Queer Indonesia Archive, and the National Library and National Archive of Indonesia. Their presence made this process not only intellectually rewarding but also deeply human. I am === [PDF page 5] === grateful to those who first introduced me to the “scenes,” to the love of archival work, to the joy of reading and writing, and to love itself. My love is for those who have accompanied me throughout the messiness of it all and offered moments of respite when I lacked the courage to continue. Lastly, this work would not have been possible without the care and endless support of my parents and my two sisters with their wonderful families, who have never hesitated to swoop in when I failed to show up—families I could not possibly emulate but have learned to love and who have loved me all the same. Thank you for letting me be. === [PDF page 6] === Table of Contents ABSTRACT.......................................................................................................................................2 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS..................................................................................................................4 TABLE OF CONTENTS......................................................................................................................6 LIST OF TABLES..............................................................................................................................7 INTRODUCTION............................................................................................................................... 8 THE CENTER CANNOT HOLD..................................................................................................................... 11 TOWARD AN ANALYTICAL FRAMEWORK.................................................................................................... 19 Citizenship and National Belonging................................................................................................ 19 The Intimate and Moral Dimension of Citizenship............................................................................. 25 The Heteronormative Family as Moral Infrastructure........................................................................ 29 CASES AND PROPOSITIONS......................................................................................................................... 37 METHODS................................................................................................................................................. 41 STUDY OVERVIEW..................................................................................................................................... 44 THE MARRIAGE PLOT................................................................................................................... 48 EARLY DEBATES ON MARRIAGE (LATE 1920S–1930S)................................................................................. 50 TOWARD THE 1974 MARRIAGE LAW (LATE 1950S-EARLY 1970S)................................................................ 75 MARRIAGE AFTER 1974 (LATE 1970S–1990S)............................................................................................. 92 CHAPTER SUMMARY: WOMEN, GOD, AND THE STATE............................................................................... 105 DEFENDING THE FAMILY........................................................................................................... 109 CASES OVERVIEW................................................................................................................................... 111 AILA Judicial Review Petition..................................................................................................... 111 Family Resilience Bill................................................................................................................ 116 THE PUBLIC-PRIVATE DIVIDES................................................................................................................ 126 AILA Judicial Review Petition..................................................................................................... 129 Family Resilience Bill................................................................................................................ 134 TRANSLATING MORAL ANXIETY.............................................................................................................. 136 AILA Judicial Review Petition..................................................................................................... 137 Family Resilience Bill................................................................................................................ 145 CHAPTER SUMMARY: CITIZENSHIP, IDENTITY, AND MORALITY................................................................ 153 HETERONORMATIVE FAMILY AS MORAL INFRASTRUCTURE................................................. 161 THE CASE OF WOMEN HEADS OF HOUSEHOLD: WHO COUNTS?................................................................ 167 THE CASE OF LGBT GROUPS: IS FAMILY ALWAYS ALREADY HETEROSEXUAL?........................................ 184 KODRAT AND PRESTASI........................................................................................................................... 189 Women Heads of Household....................................................................................................... 189 LGBT Groups........................................................................................................................... 191 CHAPTER SUMMARY: DOING HETERONORMATIVITY................................................................................ 192 CONCLUSION............................................................................................................................... 199 REFERENCES............................................................................................................................... 205 === [PDF page 7] === List of Tables Table 1.1 Features of moral infrastructures ……………………………………………………29 Table 3.1 Provisions under reviewed in the AILA judicial review petition …………………..112 Table 2.2 The trajectory of the AILA judicial review petition, 2016-2017……………………114 Table 3.3 The trajectory of the Family Resilience Bill ………………………………………..118 Table 3.4 Key provisions of the Family Resilience Bill (2017 and 2020 drafts) ……………...119 === [PDF page 8] === Chapter One Introduction This dissertation examines the dynamics of citizenship and national belonging in Indonesia, particularly after the transformative Reformasi era of the late 1990s.1 It seeks to engage in a discussion about the construction of Indonesia as a political community and the “proper” citizens, a process that inevitably excludes. I argue that the boundaries of citizenship both shape and are shaped by cultural scripts surrounding family and national identity. Central to this process is the heteronormative family as moral infrastructure. An embedded, often invisible assemblage of symbolic meanings, social practices, institutions, and technical-material arrangements, it mediates moral judgments, organizes affective and ethical dispositions, and structures access to rights, recognition, and legitimacy.2 Disadvantaged minority groups experience citizenship in distinct and often inequitable ways.3 I investigate what accounts for the disparities in how these different groups, particularly In 1998, Indonesia experienced the collapse of the authoritarian New Order regime. Named Reformasi, it coincided with the spread of democratization in Southeast Asia. Here, democratization refers to the end of an authoritarian regime and the subsequent transition toward procedural democracy. On procedural democracy, see Schumpeter (1994). In this study, “heteronormative family” refers to a primarily monogamous heterosexual family with small number of children with husbands as bradwinner and wives as primary homemakers and caregivers. “Heteronormative” indicates “heteronormativity.” Coined by Michael Warner (1991), this concept built on earlier feminist and queer theories such as Adrienne Rich’s (1980) compulsory heterosexuality, Monique Wittig’s (1992) The Straight Mind, Gayle Rubin’s (1987/2011) charmed circle, and Judith Butler’s (1990) heterosexual matrix. All challenge the assumed and enforced heterosexuality that privileges heterosexual monogamy, marriage, and reproduction. Warner (1991) also warned against the embedded, pervasive, and often invisible nature of heteronormativity in social theorizing and politics. Saskia Wieringa (2012, p. 516) highlights its naturalization as it is defined as “a system in which sexual conduct and kinship relations are organized in such a way that a specific form of heterosexuality becomes the culturally accepted ‘natural’ order.” Heteronormativity is not only about who is excluded but also about how institutions and everyday norms are organized to maintain or reproduce heterosexual, gender-conforming life as the norm: privileging certain ties and bodies. “Minority group” refers to a category of people who experience relative disadvantage compared to members of a dominant social group. The term “minority” does not necessarily reflect statistical fact or group size. Rather, it applies to groups who receive differential treatment due to their physical, social, or cultural differences (Wirth, 1941). The defining characteristic was the experience of discrimination and oppression. In this sense, women, too, === [PDF page 9] === queer (henceforth, LGBT) individuals and women heads of household, experience citizenship. 4 This study aims to engage with the broader paradox of citizenship itself: why does inequality persist within a framework that promises equal rights? I focus on the reproduction of inequality through political and legal mechanisms. Both groups challenge the normative ideal of heteronormative family, however, their experiences of exclusion are shaped by different historical trajectories and alignment with dominant cultural scripts. Rather than seeing both the family and citizenship as fixed categories, I look at how different disadvantaged minority groups have navigated their citizenship status and responded to he political opportunities that came up after the 1998 Reformasi. This includes looking into how they articulate their claims and position themselves within the dominant narratives of national belonging. I look into how their strategies of claim-making and self-presentation both contest and are constrained by dominant constructions of national identity and family. Thus, revealing how citizenship in contemporary Indonesia operates as a stratified system that grants recognition and rights unevenly based on conformity to heteronormative family as a condition of belonging. could be considered minorities (Hacker, 1951). Nevertheless, the use of the term “minority” is often contested, and the communities themselves may refuse the minority identification; see, for example, Monier (2023). In the case of Indonesia, the term “minority” is discussed in relation to groups’ relative disadvantages compared to the majority of the population (Fealy & Ricci, 2019). Among the groups being discussed in their works are ethnic, religious, gender and sexual minorities as well as people with disabilities. Whenever possible, I use terms that are most commonly used in public discourse. However, it is important to note that in Indonesia, the term “LGBT” is often used as a general reference to any non-heterosexual or non-binary identity. It often signifies only gay men, who tend to be more politically visible than other groups. Lesbian and bisexual individuals, in particular, are often unaccounted for, hidden under narratives of “immaturity,” or pressured into heterosexual marriages. Moreover, the trans community (partly referred to as waria) has a distinct historical and sociopolitical trajectory owing to the public visibility of waria. These divergent experiences make it analytically indefensible to treat “LGBT” as a coherent or unified category. Nevertheless, the term “LGBT” persists as a shorthand in public and political discourses, especially within the context of rights advocacy and state projects. It operates as a form of metonymy (tota pro partibus), where the whole is invoked to refer to only one part (often the most visible or politically legible group). === [PDF page 10] === 10 The state often relies on the family as an ideological construct and as a fundamental principle of social organization (Collins, 1998; Waite, 2000).5 In Indonesia, policies concerning family protection and poverty alleviation presuppose a particular vision of the family (i.e., the heterosexual nuclear family) through which the state enforces gender roles, regulates sexual and reproductive behaviors, and distributes welfare. State power is exercised not primarily through coercion but through the naturalization and institutionalization of roles, norms, and practices embedded within state programs and policies. Governance thus operates through the convergence of formal laws and policies with the disciplining of family life itself. Individuals are encouraged and often compelled to perform gender and familial roles that align with the heteronormative framework to be recognized as proper citizens. In doing so, the family not only functions as a site of governance but also actively shapes the boundaries of citizenship itself, defining who is deemed legible and deserving of state recognition and protection as citizens. In this study, I trace how the category of family is represented and mobilized at specific political moments and how it is linked to other discursive signs that collectively signify national belonging and legitimate citizenship. Different state programs or policies tend to resemble one another because they operate within shared problematization (i.e., ways to formulate the problems) and shared common frameworks for understanding those problems (Rose, O’Malley, & Valverde, 2006). It is this “framework” that I attempt to spell out in this dissertation. Within such a framework that underpins state programs or policies tied to citizenship rights, categories of gender and sexuality are constructed relationally, defined against the figure of See, for example, Sīrman (2005) on how citizenship and political belonging were organized through gendered and familial relations in Turkey. === [PDF page 11] === 11 those who fall outside the boundaries of the heteronormative family as the figurative other. By examining how LGBT individuals and women heads of household are differentially positioned in relation to the heteronormative family, this study demonstrates that exclusion from full citizenship in contemporary Indonesia is not merely a result of policy gaps or incidental oversight in policy implementations. Rather, it is rooted in how both the family and the nation itself are collectively imagined. The Center Cannot Hold Indonesia, as a nation, is a construct. It is a vast archipelago of thousands of islands, home to diverse ethnicities, languages, and ways of living. It is an assemblage shaped by cultural and historical contingencies, transformations, and reforms; an invention formed over the longue durée. In Imagined Communities, Benedict Anderson (1983/2006) emphasizes the role of cultural works and discursive practices in shaping the nation-state as an imagined political community that demands the construction of a cohesive narrative of identity. 6 This narrative functions not necessarily as a universal truth but as a contingent script that organizes and gives meaning to individual and collective life. Such a script is not inherently tied to any fixed category such as ethnicity, geography, language, or religion. It may also extend beyond questions of blood and kinship to encompass transnational influences, processes of translation, acts of exclusion, and patterns of expropriation. Citizens perform this script while also constantly improvising and negotiating it. Thus, the script remains a continuous reiteration, perpetually under construction and open to reconfiguration. In this sense, the formation of citizens and the political community to Benedict Anderson (1983/2006) argues that print capitalism, through print-languages and the “horizontal-seculartransverse time,” is essential to the emergence of national consciousness among national subjects. === [PDF page 12] === 12 which they belong are continuous and co-constitutive processes. Both shape and are shaped by national imagery. When the collapse of the authoritarian New Order regime happened in 1998, the state underwent a process of decentralization that shattered the regime’s highly centralized government.7 While matters such as security and defense, foreign policy, justice, and religious affairs remain under the control of the central government, other matters of governance were relegated to local levels. 8 The process of decentralization, which expanded the ability of local elites to shape the implementation of state policies and laws to serve their own interests (Aspinall et al., 2003; Schulte Nordholt & Van Klinken, 2007; Van Klinken, 2019), has intersected with the rise of untamed “ruling oligarchies” (Winters, 2013), and predatory elites (Hadiz, 2004). This undermines democratic norms and the rule of law. In effect, the changing electoral landscape and decentralization further intensified and accelerated the emergence of fragmented identities serving as a means to mobilize new constituencies (Crouch, 2010; Pisani, 2014). As Henk Schulte Nordholt (2008) noted, what followed was the loss of a “shared sense of Indonesian citizenship.” It was a kind of collective forgetting while grappling for a new sense of national belonging. The splintering of the nation and the broadening of political spaces increased political participation and opened up opportunities to redefine relationships not only between the state and citizens but also The phrase New Order (Orde Baru) was used by then-president Soeharto to contrast it with the Old Order (Orde Lama) of his predecessor, Soekarno. The New Order came into power in 1966 after an unsuccessful coup attempt and the assassination of six military generals on September 30, 1965. In March 1966, the transfer of power to Soeharto was legitimized through the supposed signing of a document called the Order of Eleven March (Surat Perintah Sebelas Maret, Supersemar). The 1998 Reformasi led to four primary changes: (1) changes to the constitution and electoral system to have free, open, and direct elections for president and legislators; (2) military reforms and increased civilian control; (3) institutionalized efforts to combat corruption and court reforms toward judicial independence; and (4) === [PDF page 13] === 13 between the dominant majority and minorities (Fealy & Ricci, 2019). 9 The 1998 Reformasi gave rise to contending meanings about what it means to be citizens and national subjects. The center cannot hold. As Kathryn Robinson (2014) notes, however, the challenge to develop national identity and belonging lies in “how the parts can appeal to the whole.” 10 In a diverse society such as Indonesia, the tension between universality and particularity, inherent to citizenship everywhere, is particularly stark and everpresent. One of the most significant forces in the reconfiguration of the nation was the efforts to reposition political Islam within the imagined nation. A reiteration of national identity in Indonesia inevitably involved ongoing contestation over the role of Islam in shaping the nation’s identity and political order. Such debates can be dated back to the birth of the nation in 1945. Seeking a balance, Soekarno, as the first president, addressed this conflict by adopting Pancasila as the state’s philosophical foundation that incorporated five principles: monotheism, humanitarianism, national unity, democracy by consensus, and social justice. 11 The first principle, monotheism, is a form of compromise to cater to Islamic factions wanting to implement Shari’a within the Constitution. In 1945, the Committee to Investigate Preparations for Independence (Badan Penyelidik Usahausaha Persiapan Kemerdekaan, BPUPK) prepared a draft of the Constitution containing a preamble, later termed the Jakarta Charter (Piagam Jakarta), which mandated Muslims to practice For discussion on restrictions against gender and sexual minorities, see also Blackwood (2007). While it is not the focus of my study, Jessica Soedirgo (2018) shows that access to rights often depends on the interests and alliances within informal networks at local levels and determines the extent to which minority rights are protected apart from the formal legal framework. 10 Kathryn Robinson (2014) also examines the political language of belonging developed across regimes that connects the diverse parts of Indonesia in relation to the whole. From the nationalist movement, to the authoritarian regime under Suharto, post-Reformasi, to the current incumbent President Joko Widodo, each have different political vocabularies aligned with their political projects. 11 For further discussion, see Sidel (2006) and Soekarno (1945/2018). === [PDF page 14] === 14 Islamic law.12 Those provisions were stripped from the draft when the Constitution was finalized on August 18, 1945, just a day following the proclamation of independence (Elson, 2009). This was seen as a major setback to formalizing Islam’s role in Indonesian politics and society. After 1998, Rachel Rinaldo (2010, 2013) shows that the consolidation of democracy coincided with the rise of political Islam and a marked increase in public piety in Indonesia, both of which have influenced debates on citizenship, most visibly in discussions on the constitutional amendment of 2002 that echoed earlier disputes over the Jakarta Charter and the place of Islam in Indonesia (Elson, 2009, 2013). 13 The 2002 amendment centered on the proposal to reinsert the socalled “seven words” of the Jakarta Charter into the Constitution. Proponents argue that constitutional recognition of Muslims’ obligation to uphold Islamic law would restore the moral foundations of the nation. Islam was seen not as a matter of private conscience but as a divine principle of collective life and moral guidance. This is rooted in the concept of Islam as al-deen, “a total way of life” that encompasses personal, communal, and political dimensions (Means, 2009).14 The amendment debates were thus part of a broader struggle over how the nation should be imagined as it was thought to rest on shared religious morality.15 12 The Jakarta Charter (Piagam Jakarta) includes the following “seven words”: “obligation to practise Islamic law for all Muslims” [dengan mewajibkan mendjalankan sjari’at Islam bagi pemeluk-pemeluknya], a prescription repeated in Article 29 of the Constitution, as well as the stipulation that the president must be a Muslim. For a fuller discussion see Elson (2009, 2013). 13 In mid-1945, the Committee to Investigate Preparations for Independence (Badan Penyelidik Usaha-usaha Persiapan Kemerdekaan, BPUPK) prepared a draft of the Constitution containing a preamble, later termed the Jakarta Charter (Piagam Jakarta), which included the following “seven words”: “obligation to practise Islamic law for all Muslims” [dengan mewajibkan mendjalankan sjari’at Islam bagi pemeluk-pemeluknya], a prescription repeated in Article 29 of the Constitution, as well as the stipulation that the president be a Muslim. Those provisions were stripped from the draft when the Constitution was finalized and validated by the Committee for the Preparation of Indonesian Independence (Panitia Persiapan Kemerdekaan Indonesia, PPKI) on August 18, 1945, the day following the proclamation of independence. For a fuller discussion, see Elson (2009). 14 It also abolishes the separation between the public and private assumed in conceptualizations of citizenship in the West. 15 In both the late 1950s and the early 2000s, efforts to amend the Constitution failed primarily because Islamic parties lacked the parliamentary strength to secure constitutional change, though the contexts are different. In the === [PDF page 15] === 15 Although the proposal to implement Shari’a law in the Constitution was ultimately rejected, this was not due to any decline in Islam’s influence on Indonesia’s social and political life. In line with Rinaldo’s (2013) findings of rising public piety following the 1998 Reformasi, Elson (2013) argues, the push to reinsert the Jakarta Charter in the early 2000s was futile precisely because Islam had already secured deep political and social legitimacy, even if this was not explicitly codified in the Constitution.16 Moreover, decentralization granted autonomy to each district, creating new opportunities for regional governments to enact Shari’a-inspired regulations, embedding religious norms into local governance. 17 Many bylaws produced after decentralization focus on public morality and tend to discriminate against women and disadvantaged minority groups (Brenner, 2011; Kloos & Berenschot, 2017). Such development not only indicates growing anxiety about religious identity (Sidel, 2006) but also a redefining of relations between the individual citizens and the state and between the individual citizens with others (Kloos & Berenschot, 2017). On the one hand, the resurgence of political Islam during Indonesia's democratic transition has coincided with, if not directly contributed to, restrictions on the rights of women and minorities, including gender and sexual minorities (Blackwood, 2007; Blackburn, 2008; Brenner, 1950s, Islamist parties still held substantial political weight and intellectual influence, giving rise to uncompromising debate over the foundations of the state. By contrast, the 1999–2002 campaign was largely symbolic, undermined by the fragmentation of Islamist factions and the reluctance of other Islamic-oriented parties, many of which had been co-opted during the New Order, to lend their support (Elson, 2013). 16 Although Elson (2009) argues that Islam’s political influence was not prominent before Indonesia’s independence in 1945 as secular nationalism predominantly shaped its political ethos, other scholars such as Chiara Formichi (2010) highlight the integral role of Islamism in the nation’s formation, challenging the notion of secular nationalism’s dominance. 17 For fuller discussions on the adoption of Shari’a law at regional levels, see Buehler (2013) and Buehler and Muhtada (2016). The decentralization was marked by the enactment of Law No. 22 of 1999 on Regional Government. The law was amended by Law No. 32 of 2004 on Regional Government, Law No. 23 of 2014 on Regional Government, and Law No. 6 of 2014 on Village (Desa). Aceh province is an exceptional example as it was granted special autonomy through a peace treaty ending decades of armed conflicts, allowing the implementation of Shari’a law and Islamic criminal code (Qanun Jinayat). === [PDF page 16] === 16 2011; Rinaldo, 2011). On the other hand, the post-Reformasi era witnessed a parallel increase in human rights discourse, as the fall of the authoritarian state created a more open political climate. Women and disadvantaged minority groups have more actively worked to strengthen rights-based movements, expanding their presence in public and political domains (Budianta, 2003, 2006; Ford, 2011). Since late 2015, homophobia has grown worse, fueled by political and religious forces that reinforce stigma and state-sanctioned persecution. political leaders and government officials have exacerbated the situation by making discriminatory statements that undermine LGBT people's rights to freedom of expression, privacy, and peaceful assembly (Wieringa, 2019; Wijaya, 2019). 18 The homophobic campaigns highlight the growing entanglement of religion and state power in policing sexuality and family life. This movement aligns with legal initiatives aimed at criminalizing all sexual relations outside heterosexual marriage. 19 Moreover, although heightened public piety and state regulation of sexuality have not necessarily reduced women’s public participation, the growing influence of religious conservatism has increasingly confined women to traditional gender roles, undermining progress toward gender equality after the 1998 Reformasi (Afrianty, 2020; Blackburn, 2008). The coexistence of the religious resurgence and expanding rights discourses illustrates the complex and often conflicting trajectories of democratization in Indonesia. 20 18 For earlier discussions on homophobia, see Boellstorff (2004) and Weiss (2013). In what was argued as a period of sexual moral panic in Indonesia that began in late 2015, Wieringa (2019) argues that conservatives are intensifying fears around communism and homosexuality, driven by political motives and the growing influence of hardline Muslim groups. The effort to criminalize a wide array of sexual relations outside heterosexual marriage is also discussed in relation to the emergence of what David Bourchier (2019) calls religious nationalism. 20 Hefner (2023) cautioned against attributing Indonesia’s political trends to Islam as a monolithic force. Rather, Islam provides a context within which other forces (institutions, histories, actors) interact. Indonesia’s political 19 === [PDF page 17] === 17 To date, tension over the role of Islam in public and political life, as reflected in debates over the interpretation of Pancasila and the 1945 Constitution, continues to shape struggles over defining the identity of the nation and the place of women and disadvantaged minority groups within it. The Bhinneka Tunggal Ika (unity in diversity) tenet serves as both the state’s guiding philosophy and its putative evidence of tolerance for difference. Yet, such a commitment to diversity does not necessarily translate into full citizenship for disadvantaged minority groups. Indonesia consistently ranks low in inclusiveness indexes that examine the experiences of groups across a range of social dimensions, including gender and sexual orientation. 21 The 1945 Constitution, while grounded in ideals of equality and justice, offers only broad and universal protections that often fail to account for the specific vulnerabilities of disadvantaged minority groups.22 The Constitution outlines a broad framework of human rights, including the rights to life, education, protection from violence, freedom of expression, and equality before the law, without explicitly identifying disadvantaged minority groups.23 Article 28I(2) of the Constitution guarantees freedom from discrimination “on any grounds,” yet it does not specify dynamics are specific to its own historical trajectories (colonialism, authoritarianism, the 1998 Reformasi), not to Islam itself. 21 The Inclusiveness Index is an annual ranking of nations and states developed by The Othering and Belonging Institute at the University of California, Berkeley. The index holistically examines the experiences of groups across a range of social dimensions, including race/ethnicity, gender, sexual orientation, religion, disability, and general population indicators of inclusivity, including political inclusion, income inequality, incarceration rate, refugee settlement, and greenhouse gas emission rates (Othering & Belonging Institute, 2024). 22 The Preamble of the 1945 Constitution sets out the foundational purpose of the Indonesian state: to protect all Indonesians, promote public welfare, uphold social justice, and contribute to a world order based on freedom, peace, and justice: “…to form a government of the state of Indonesia which protects all the people of Indonesia. … and to improve public welfare, to educate the life of the nation and to participate toward the establishment of a world order based on freedom, perpetual peace and social justice…” (Preamble of the 1945 Constitution, para. 3). 23 Since the drafting of the Constitution in 1945, debates around human rights were already present, reflecting an awareness of human rights as central to the new nation’s identity. These debates resurfaced during the 1999–2002 constitutional amendments, which resulted in the inclusion of human rights provisions (Articles 28A to 28J), most notably including Article 28I paragraph (4), which explicitly states the government’s responsibility to protect the rights of its citizens: “Protection, improvement, reinforcement, and fulfillment of human rights shall be the responsibility of the state, particularly the government.” === [PDF page 18] === 18 categories such as gender identity, sexual orientation, or marital status. This omission leaves protections for gender and sexual minorities, as well as other marginalized groups, legally ambiguous.24 In addition, Article 27 affirms that all citizens are equal before the law. However, this guarantee of formal equality does not prevent the state from passing laws that target specific groups or prohibit behaviors commonly associated with them. 25 In practice, “equality before the law” means that laws apply equally once enacted, but the content of those laws can, and often does, differentiate between categories of people. Despite constitutional promises of equality and human dignity, protections for disadvantaged minority groups in Indonesia remain weak and subject to restrictive interpretation by the state. Rather than being anchored in explicit legal safeguards, the realization of these rights depends heavily on how constitutional principles are interpreted and enforced. This legal ambiguity may explain why current protections, or lack thereof, for disadvantaged minority groups are best understood not as rights that are supported by the Constitution but as fragile claims mediated through broader, often vague, notions of citizenship and national belonging. In contemporary Indonesia, such a paradox manifests sharply, particularly for gender and sexual minorities. Even as they remain vulnerable to legal, social, and political exclusion, their primary safeguard still lies in the citizenship rights granted by the state, no matter how partial or uneven. 24 “Every person has the right to be free from discriminative treatment based upon any grounds and has the right to protection from such discriminative treatment.” (the 1945 Constitution, Article 28I, para. 2). 25 “All citizens are equal before the law and in government and duty to respect the law and government, with no exceptions.” (the 1945 Constitution, Article 27, para. 1). === [PDF page 19] === 19 Toward an Analytical Framework Citizenship and National Belonging Citizenship is often assumed to be universal and neutral, granting equal legal rights and obligations to all citizens.26 Despite being couched in terms of inclusion, belonging, and universalism, citizenship has paradoxically functioned to exclude certain groups, marking those who are afforded full citizenship and those who are not (Young, 1989; Isin & Turner, 2002; Bhambra, 2015).27 This paradox is also evident in Indonesia, where the notion of a singular, unified citizenship is complicated by enduring differences. In essence, both citizenship and nationalism (or nation-ness) speak of membership (either political or cultural) and, most importantly, of belonging. Citizenship is not simply a legal status or abstract entitlement but a form of belonging grounded in mutual recognition and shared responsibility (Weil, 1952/2002; Zaretsky, 2021). Rather than being framed solely as a matter of formal equality or universal rights, Weil (1952/2002) argues that citizenship must be understood as a moral and relational power embedded within national identity. Universal citizenship, when detached from the realities of power and difference, risks becoming a mechanism of exclusion. 26 T.H. Marshall (1950) describes the historical evolution of citizenship through a sequence of civil, political, and social rights. This progression involved the gradual inclusion of various social classes and the institutionalization of citizenship, establishing a framework of rules that govern the relationship between the state and its citizens. However, the historical evolution of citizenship has not always been a gradual evolution toward expansion. Critics have challenged the assumption of universal citizenship embedded within the presumed inclusion of all, arguing that it masks structural inequalities and uneven access to rights and protections. As Iris Marion Young (1989) argues, in societies where structural inequalities persist, requiring individuals to abandon their particular experiences and identities in favor of a supposedly neutral, unified perspective only reinforces existing hierarchies. 27 Two major debates have shaped contemporary citizenship discourse: the tension between individual and group rights, and the competing demands for recognition and redistribution. Particularly within the liberal tradition, tensions between individual and group rights arise when the state assigns rights or duties to groups that may undermine individual rights, or when the state bases rights and duties on group identity imputed to them without their consent (Kymlicka, 1995). The second debate primarily centers on how to address diversity and broaden participation within the political community, questioning how citizenship, as a legal and political construct, could be redefined to accommodate difference (Fraser, 1995; Fraser, 2005; Young, 1989; Yuval-Davis, 1997). === [PDF page 20] === 20 Moreover, if citizenship rights are bound up with what Ernest Renan (1882/1990) described as national rights, the rights that emerge from belonging to a nation, then the problem of belonging becomes central. Renan (1882/1990) asks: “Upon what criterion, however, should one base this national right? By what sign should one recognize it? From what tangible fact can it be made to derive?” These enduring questions expose the limitations of formal, universalist frameworks and draw attention to the moral and affective dimensions through which citizenship operates in practice, often reproducing uneven experiences of belonging, problems of (mis)recognition, and exclusion across different social groups. Related to this problem of universalism in studying citizenship in postcolonial settings, such as Indonesia, is the problem of orientalism (Isin, 2002) or ethnocentric bias (Kloos & Berenschot, 2017). Evaluating citizenship solely through historical experiences in the West (Turner, 1990) inevitably puts citizenship elsewhere into a “cluster of absences” (Isin, 2002) or “a bundle of lacks” (Isin & Turner, 2002).28 Instead, Engin Isin (2002) argues for a broader historical analysis and the need for autonomous political and cultural language, particularly in Muslim societies, to challenge orientalist assumptions that view Islam as the adversary of democracy and the development of modern citizenship. Such an approach not only resists reducing Islamic societies to static or lesser counterparts of the West but also opens space for understanding how citizenship is being reimagined in diverse cultural and historical contexts. 29 28 Bryan Turner (1990, 1997) observes that in secular societies, as the influence of formal religion declines, citizenship begins to function as a kind of “secular religion.” It provides a shared national culture, a common identity, and a shared value system in lieu of formal religion. In this view, citizenship offers a way to understand who “we” are as a nation or political community and a sense of belonging that assumes or requires sameness. 29 For example, practices as a symbol of piety such as wearing the veil have complex meanings beyond oppression or masculine domination (Mahmood, 2005). === [PDF page 21] === 21 Studies have found that Islam alone is not a determining factor in whether citizenship rights are granted; rather, it results from political contingencies and historical trajectories (Isin, 2002; Mayer, 1999). Isin (2002) traces these assumptions to imperialism and knowledge production in the 1960s–1970s, which used such characterizations of Islam as a discursive strategy of othering, a way of defining the West as modern and democratic by casting Muslim societies as their opposite: “a contemptible victim, in need of correction” (Isin, 2002, p. 125). Further, Elizabeth Monier (2023) also pushes for historizing citizens and minorities within the reconfiguration of collective identity in her study of predominantly Muslim societies such as Egypt and Iraq. Monier (2023) argues that the current tendency to view “citizen” and “minority” as opposing categories reflects a deeper and longstanding tension over how belonging is defined within religiously diverse political communities. Thus, who counts as a minority and what political or social implications this status carries are not simply produced by the state in a vacuum but outcomes of preexisting challenges facing state-building itself. Contemporary citizenship in postcolonial states, as Berenschot et al. (2017) argue, is shaped by interpretations of the proper relationship between rulers and the ruled, between the state and citizens, drawn from cultural or religious traditions and historical trajectories of postcolonial state formation (Day, 1996; Mamdani, 1996). As previously discussed, in Indonesia, apart from local customs, Islam has always been a determining force in shaping national identity and what it means to be its citizen. It has been central to power struggles, as rulers and political leaders recognized its value in legitimizing authority, fueling the rise of political Islam, where leaders leveraged Islamic practices coupled with “traditions” to justify their rule. === [PDF page 22] === 22 The place of Islam within the nation-state is more than a question of whether the state is truly secular or about the vying for authority between the “secular” state and the Islamic state. As Jeremy Menchik (2014, p. 599) highlights, while Indonesia is not a theocracy, the public is never sanitized of religion and shaped by “godly nationalism,” a unique form of nationalism that neither aligns fully with secularism nor Islamic statehood but remains “exclusively and assertively religious.” This godly nationalism also warrants the state to actively uphold mainstream religious and cultural norms while simultaneously restricting the expression of ideas deemed antithetical to these norms. Although it is frequently asserted that Islam is singular and unified, in reality, it encompasses a wide range of interpretations. Consequently, the struggle over citizenship and rights often hinges on competing interpretations of religious texts, with opposition to Sharia legislation and minority rights defense often emphasizing hermeneutical approaches (asbabul wurud) (Kloos & Berenschot, 2017). Debates on the implementation of Shari’a-based regulations in Indonesia, for example, are rarely approached from liberal or secular perspectives that rest on individual rights. Instead, they focus on interpretations of religious duties and the state’s role in upholding Islamic morality. Such debates raise critical questions about who qualifies as a “true Muslim” and who is labeled a “deviant,” categories that influence social and political inclusion or exclusion (Means, 2009). This highlights the complex ways in which religion interacts with citizenship politics, creating spaces for both negotiation and contestation over the role of Islam within the nation-state as an imagined political community. In studying citizenship, I also draw from Engin Isin and Greg Nielsen’s (2008) approach, which broadens the analytical focus from who citizens are (the doer) to what people do (the deed). === [PDF page 23] === 23 This approach focuses on moments when people act to claim rights and constitute themselves as political subjects regardless of their citizenship status. This perspective is useful for drawing attention to political moments where citizenship matters. However, in discussing “outsiders within,” such as women heads of household and LGBT groups, I do not intend to draw a strict separation between the doers and the deeds, as it is impossible when dealing with matters such as gender and sexuality. Along the same vein, Erick Hiariej and Kristian Stokke (2017, p. 1) propose a framework that sees citizenship as “produced and practiced through movements against injustice.” Citizenship emerges through collective mobilization, often led by marginalized groups, who challenge social hierarchies and demand rights, welfare, and legitimacy. Membership, legal status, rights, and participation are the core stakes in citizenship politics, with citizenship as an outcome of the interplay between competing interests, strategies, and capacities across different political arenas that often selectively privilege certain agendas, actors, and strategies (Jessop, 2008; Stokke, 2017). In this study, however, I include any act or rights-claiming effort invoking notions of citizenship and national belonging, including those that aim to maintain the existing moral order and social hierarchies, as it presumably engages the opposite, those who challenge the existing moral order and hierarchies. Citizenship and national belonging are intertwined. National belonging, in particular, is often circumscribed by normative frameworks that privilege particular identities and relational forms. It cannot be reduced to formal citizenship status or legal documentation. Rather, it is mediated through regimes of moral legibility and social acceptability. Those who fail to conform to dominant norms continue to experience exclusion despite superficial gestures of recognition. === [PDF page 24] === 24 Elizabeth Povinelli (2002) exposes the limits of a liberal conception of recognition and examines how recognition often imposes normative social structures, such as heterosexuality, onto local cultures, thereby marginalizing or displacing alternative social and bodily relationships.30 Even when local customs and cultural practices are acknowledged, they are integrated into state legal systems in ways that subtly reinforce dominant norms. This recalibration of local practices serves to uphold existing social hierarchies, demonstrating how the politics of recognition can operate as a means of managing difference, a strategy of governance, rather than genuinely embracing it. It allows the state to project an image of inclusivity while preserving existing hierarchies and determining the boundaries of citizenship. Povinelli (2002) highlights how recognition is often shaped by the desires and constraints of the dominant group, operating as a tool to maintain hierarchies rather than transform inequalities. Recognition is often contingent on the willingness or capacity to conform to norms set by the dominant culture. 31 Recognized subjects must be rendered intelligible and acceptable, appearing as “not repugnant” or “not-us,” which reinforces the power dynamics inherent in the politics of recognition.32 Consequently, recognition under these terms fails to address deeper issues, such as economic redistribution or systemic oppression, that perpetuate inequality. 30 Through different theoretical approaches, scholars such as Charles Taylor (1994), Will Kymlicka (1995), Iris Marion Young (1989, 1990), Nancy Fraser (1995, 2000, 2005, 2007), and Axel Honneth (Fraser & Honneth, 2003) have all identified recognition as a common denominator in struggles to define the relationship between excluded individuals or groups and the dominant majorities. 31 This process reflects what Gwendolyn Mink (1995) describes as the troubled coexistence between dominant and subordinate categories, where the dominant category (in this case, the heteronormative family) not only defines itself through exclusion but also legitimizes its dominance through this exclusionary logic. 32 Elizabeth Povinelli (2002), in The Cunning of Recognition, analyzes how settler nations engage with and acknowledge ancient Aboriginal traditions, with a particular focus on public debates concerning land claims. The study underscores the influence of mass media and political discourse in shaping perceptions of Indigenous culture, exposing the “political cunning” employed by settler states to manage and control cultural recognition. Drawing on Kaja Silverman’s (1989) notion that hegemonic colonialism operates by instilling in colonized subjects a desire to assume the identity of their colonizers, Povinelli argues that colonial power in postcolonial contexts instigates a yearning among Indigenous peoples for an indeterminate, lost version of their traditions. This yearning, she === [PDF page 25] === 25 Belonging is often taken for granted as part of the natural order of things. The question of who belongs and who does not often surfaces only when established boundaries are challenged or destabilized. As Nira Yuval-Davis (2010, p. 266) argues: “[b]elonging tends to be naturalized and becomes articulated and politicized only when it is threatened in some way. Belonging assumes boundaries of belonging and is thus exclusive as well as inclusive.” Exclusion operates through mechanisms that establish and reinforce dominant identities produced and maintained by those in positions of power, thus creating barriers for marginalized groups to gain recognition or fully exercise their citizenship rights. In Indonesia, where multiple categories of belonging coexist, citizenship becomes a critical lens through which the relationships between different social groups and the nation as a whole can be understood. It offers “the prism through which to address the political” (Nyers, 2007, p. 3). It encompasses demands made on the basis of differences that, in turn, transform citizenship into a site of struggle over identity, resources, and belonging. By articulating their identities in relation to dominant discourses and narratives of what it means to be citizens, marginalized groups critically reimagine what is considered acceptable or legitimate and assert their place within the nation-state. The Intimate and Moral Dimension of Citizenship Citizenship is often framed around the public sphere, focusing on the rights and responsibilities individuals have toward one another and the broader community. However, this framework fails to acknowledge that numerous legal and social policies govern the private sphere suggests, fosters a disjuncture between the state’s recognition of “ancient tradition” and the evolving realities of Indigenous practices, thereby raising critical questions about the social consequences of this disconnect. === [PDF page 26] === 26 and are structured around a hegemonic model of heterosexual family life (Richardson, 1998; Weeks, 1998). Drawing on Ken Plummer’s (1995) concept of intimate citizenship 33, Donovan et al. (1999) argue that existing family-based legislation and policy are too restrictive to accommodate diverse “families of choice.” Participation in society is largely predicated on being heterosexual, preferably within a married, heterosexual couple that fits a traditional family model. Understanding citizenship requires attending to cultural scripts about this intimate dimension where gender and sexuality converge, not as peripheral to the political but as central to the very production of national belonging. Women’s access to economic independence and full citizenship rights is systematically undermined by their construction as dependents within the family, despite evidence to the contrary regarding women’s capacities to form and maintain autonomous households (Orloff, 1993). In many states, and particularly in Indonesia, welfare policy frameworks presume and reward the male breadwinner/female caregiver model, embedding patriarchal gender assumptions into social entitlements. Canaday et al. (2021) highlight how social hierarchies are made natural through repeated practices within households and families and their relation to state practices. As head of the household, the husband represented his family politically and was responsible for the supposed dependents of his family. These hierarchies are not reproduced naturally but rather sustained by the workings of the state. State power legally assigns individuals as “wives,” “husbands,” “minors,” or “dependents” and relegates those outside the framework as deviants, subject to 33 Ken Plummer defines intimate citizenship as the ability (or lack thereof) to have control over one's body, emotions, and relationships, as well as access to social representations, public spaces, and meaningful choices about identity and gender experiences (Plummer, 1995). === [PDF page 27] === 27 correction or punishment (Canaday et al., 2021). For example, sex within marriage is encouraged and licit, while that outside marriage is illicit; children born within marriage are “legitimate,” while those born outside marriage are “illegitimate.” Further, drawing on the work of Ann McClintock (1995), Patricia Hill Collins (1998, p.64) argues that the family naturalizes social hierarchy outside the home as it does within: Families are expected to socialize their members into an appropriate set of “family values” that simultaneously reinforce the hierarchy within the assumed unity of interests symbolized by the family and lay the foundation for many social hierarchies. In particular, hierarchies of gender, wealth, age, and sexuality within actual family units correlate with comparable hierarchies in U.S. society. Individuals typically learn their assigned place in hierarchies of race, gender, ethnicity, sexuality, nation, and social class in their families of origin. At the same time, they learn to view such hierarchies as natural social arrangements, as compared to socially constructed ones. Hierarchy in this sense becomes “naturalized” because it is associated with seemingly “natural” processes of the family. The ideal family perceives hierarchy (father over mother, parents over children) as both natural and harmonious, a unity within hierarchy 34. Moreover, such a metaphor is powerful and can be extended to justify social hierarchy outside the home by making inequality (e.g., race, class, gender) appear natural, necessary, and morally appropriate. Nükhet Sīrman (2005) argues that citizenship studies often overlook the cultural codes that reproduce exclusion. Categories of difference, such as gender and sexuality, are not external to citizenship but actively produced through the very discourses that define it. The creation of the sovereign nation-state is inseparable from the construction of the “proper” citizen, who is assigned specific rights and responsibilities alongside moral expectations. In Turkey, this took shape through what Sīrman (2005) terms “familial citizenship,” where the nuclear family imaginary was 34 Ann McClintock notes, “The family image came to figure hierarchy within unity as an organic element of historical progress, and thus became indispensable for legitimating exclusion and hierarchy within nonfamilial social forms such as nationalism, liberal individualism, and imperialism” (McClintock, 1995, p. 45). === [PDF page 28] === 28 produced in tandem with the modern state. The patriarchal nuclear family regulated desire and intimacy while simultaneously constituting sovereignty, national community, and the modern individual. A similar logic operates in Indonesia, where the family is positioned as the foundation of the nation. Citizenship is thus organized around familial roles, where one’s status and identity within the polity are determined by their position within the family. Scholarly works on citizenship in Indonesia have also engaged with concepts that engage with the intimate dimension, such as gendered citizenship (Blackburn, 1999) and sexual citizenship (Davies, 2020). Sharyn Graham Davies (2020), in particular, notes how citizenship rights are distributed along sexual–moral lines. In this framework, non-reproductive, non-marital, or non-heterosexual forms of intimacy are cast as deviant and threatening: “All claims on sexuality beyond procreative marital sex are dangerous, literally dangerous for the claimant and allegedly dangerous for the state” [emphasis added] (Graham, 2020, p. 696). Graham (2020) also shows how sexual citizenship in Indonesia operates through state policies that privilege heteronormative sexuality. For example, only married couples can have access to contraceptive pills. Sexual citizenship is not merely about sexual freedom or identity recognition but about how the state determines who is entitled to rights, benefits, and legitimacy. Saya Shiraishi (1997) observes that the notion of citizenship in Indonesian public discourse is primarily invoked to promote social harmony and deference to authority, often articulated through familial metaphors such as bapak (father) and anak (child) to describe state-citizen relations. While these studies acknowledge the influence of dominant family ideologies, they have not directly examined the relationship between the family and citizenship. This gap in the literature is parallel to the scarcity of a counterdiscourse challenging the heteronormative family. Labor === [PDF page 29] === 29 activist and researcher Ruth Indiah Rahayu highlights this issue, noting that despite significant progress in counterdiscourses on gender and sexuality, there remains a marked absence of discourses that contest the dominance of the heterosexual nuclear family.35 It seems we are now facing what Shulamith Firestone (1970, p. 230) calls “the peculiar failure of imagination concerning alternatives to the family,” albeit the reality that an ideal heteronormative family is a rare achievement, and families everywhere have always been varied to some extent. 36 The Heteronormative Family as Moral Infrastructure In this study, I sketch the moral infrastructure (Table 1.1) as an embedded and often invisible assemblage of meanings, practices, and institutional arrangements that mediate moral judgments (defining what is good and proper or deviant), shape affective and ethical disposition (how people feel and act toward others), and determine access to rights, recognition, and legitimacy (who gets state support and protection). Table 3.1 Features of moral infrastructures Feature Description Symbolic-material hybrid Combines symbolic systems (values, ideals, norms) with materialtechnical forms (laws, statistics, databases, spatial arrangements). Mediating function Translates moral orders into actual practices of classification (who gets recognized as deserving, deviant, or excluded). 35 Personal communication with Ruth Indiah Rahayu, June 9, 2023. See also Rahayu, R. I. (2019, June 20). Keluarga Versus Keluarga. IndoPROGRESS. https://indoprogress.com/2019/06/keluarga-versus-keluarga/ 36 For example, Kath Weston’s Family We Choose (1991) illustrates how queer communities in the United States form networks of intimate relations beyond biological or marital ties. In the Indonesian context, Tom Boellstorff’s The Gay Archipelago (2005) and Evelyn Blackwood’s Falling into the Lesbi World (2010) provide insights into possible non-heteronormative forms of intimate life. An edited volume by Koning et al. (2000) also shows variation to the Western family ideology in household and family arrangements in Indonesia. === [PDF page 30] === 30 Durability and obscurity Naturalized and mostly invisible, yet structures life pervasively. Changeability Continuously contested and potentially reconfigured over time through political struggles and everyday resistance. Moral-technical rationality What is considered “good” is tied to what is considered technically “feasible or rational.” This conceptualization becomes particularly salient when analytical attention is directed toward how state power governs the intimate dimension of citizenship. In this framework, the heteronormative family emerges as a central organizing framework, a moral infrastructure, functioning simultaneously as a normative ideal and a technology of governance. 37 As a normative ideal, the heteronormative family mediates judgments of what is considered “proper” or “good.” 38 It provides a template on how people should live and relate to one another (to be married, heterosexual, and reproductive) as duties or moral obligations. The family, far from being a neutral or private unit, becomes a normative standard through which the state sees, categorizes, and governs its citizens. It produces a regime of valuation, where access to rights is contingent upon one’s ability to conform to normative assumptions of gender and sexuality embedded within the heteronormative family. The family serves as a form of governing technology, a mechanism through which the state manages populations in their everyday lives. Jacques Donzelot (1977, p.81) refers to “technologies” as “practical mechanisms,” not abstract ideals. These practices, in turn, “translate theoretical strategies into real effects on populations” (Donzelot, 1977, p.82). Power does not 37 I develop the concept of moral infrastructure by drawing from various works on moral order (Durkheim, 1957/1992; Wuthnow, 1987) and from anthropological literatures on infrastructure (Bowker & Star, 2000; Berlant, 38 I use the term “normative ideal,” instead of norm, to emphasize the space between an ideal and the ‘ought-to-be’ characteristic of a norm. === [PDF page 31] === 31 necessarily operate through a single authority imposed from the top. Such technologies make sense of reality to the extent that they help carry out actual programs, meaning they are tied to actions and interventions. It becomes an organizing framework that makes government action possible and allows authorities to intervene, correct, or redirect populations as needed without overt coercion. In this view, the family is a form of governance technology through which state power is exercised, not through overt coercion but through the naturalization and institutionalization of roles, norms, and practices embedded in its projects and policies. In Indonesia, I argue, the family is not just the target of governing practices or unit of administration but also a conduit through which governance is enacted. The family, often seen as a private and apolitical institution, actually operates as one of the most effective sites and apparatuses for state intervention and social control. State policies concerning child protection, family resilience, and poverty alleviation all presuppose and reinforce a particular model of the family (in this case, the heteronormative family). Moral infrastructure thus offers a conceptual tool for understanding citizen-state relationships, how the state governs gender and sexuality, how a particular moral order becomes durable, and how state power operates through embodied practices of family and intimate lives. I am riffing on Michelle Murphy’s concept of “epistemic infrastructure” that performs a “historically specific regime of valuation” (Murphy, 2017, p. 6).39 In Murphy’s (2017, p.6) conceptualization, the term infrastructural refers to “the ways knowledge-making [emphasis added] can install material supports into the world, such as buildings, bureaucracies, standards, forms, technologies, funding flows, affective orientations, and power relations.” Epistemic 39 Michele Murphy “… sketches the epistemic infrastructure that perform the economization of life” (Murphy, 2017, === [PDF page 32] === 32 infrastructure is an assemblage of practices, interventions, and material supports enacted by multiple actors and institutions with authority (experts, research institutions, governing bodies) that became consolidated into extensive arrangements of governance within the state and other organizations (Murphy, 2017). Rather than focusing on knowledge-making or epistemology, however, I focus more on how moral sensibility or understanding of moral obligations (deontology) also produces a particular regime of valuation, one that does not presume the existence of “autonomous, reasonable, and rational subjects” capable of bracketing social differences when deciding public matters. 40 Moral obligations, here, refer to what Robert Wuthnow (1987) calls the public definitions of moral obligations or “moral order.”41 Rather than “individual moods,” Robert Wuthnow (1987) argues that it is moral order that mediates between subjective individuals and the institutions that structure their actions. Moreover, Émile Durkheim (1957/1992) argues that being moral is not purely a personal disposition but a social relation that ties individuals to the particular society and state to which they belong. The relationship between the individual and the state, which assigns rights to the individual and a reciprocal moral obligation, is variable as the state evolves and becomes more complex (Durkheim, 1957/1992). Hence, it may be fruitful to examine how these moral obligations transpire in a setting such as Indonesia, where these “reciprocal moral 40 I draw on Elizabeth Povinelli’s discussion of this difference between epistemology and deontology in The Cunning of Recognition (2002, p. 16), “[a] core obligation of liberalism is to decide public matters on the basis of autonomous, reasonable, and rational subjects (‘private persons’) bracketing the social differences that exist among themselves and presenting to their fellow citizens the most robust, true, sincere, and legitimate argument they can muster. And yet moral obligation proper is otherwise in nature than this obligation to reason. Moral obligation (moral sensibility) is exactly where critical rationality is not.” 41 In a discussion about the link between ideology and social structure, Robert Wuthnow argues (1987, p. 150) that “… ideologies do not arise primarily from anxieties or feelings of dislocation or other psychological needs attributed to the individual. They arise instead from changes in the moral order, in public definitions of moral obligations [emphasis added], that make room for or necessitate new efforts to dramatize the nature of social relations.” === [PDF page 33] === 33 obligations” are subject to contestation among different moral authorities such as the state, customs (adat), and religions. A moral infrastructure functions as a filter, allocating resources and legitimacy according to moral criteria. It embodies “moral classifications” in which values are encoded into technical forms that govern access, inclusion, and worth (see also Bowker & Star, 1999): Welfare systems codify moral distinctions between the “deserving” and “undeserving” poor via bureaucratic classifications and eligibility metrics; public health embeds moral priorities (e.g., who gets vaccinated first) in logistical decisions; data systems (e.g., digital ID systems) encode moral hierarchies into their seemingly neutral platforms of recognition and service delivery. Legal categories, identity cards, data systems, and eligibility algorithms appear objective and merely technical, but they are saturated with normative assumptions. This moral infrastructure merges national morality and technocratic rationality. Moral (and political) matters are reframed as matters of technical expertise rather than politics within a particular configuration of actors, institutions, and discourses.42 This moral infrastructure relies on supposedly neutral technical expertise to identify what constitutes a social problem, prescribe solutions, and naturalize categories (family, gender, and sexuality) at the center of the purported “problem.” Such an operating moral infrastructure with its assemblage of meanings, practices, and institutional arrangements is difficult to dismantle, yet it is not immutable. In moments of uncertainty when existing moral orders are contested or become unstable, cultural forms 42 This is similar to what James Ferguson (1990/2006) calls “rendering technical,” in The Anti-Politics Machine. It refers, in short, to the depoliticization of political matters through technocratic solutions that favor supposedly neutral technical expertise. === [PDF page 34] === 34 “dramatize (articulate, clarify, reaffirm) the character of moral obligations” (Wuthnow, 1987, p. 344).43 Citizens are not passive targets of moral classifications. They also navigate, contest, and subvert the moral order that structures their lives. Disadvantaged minority groups may mobilize to present themselves as aligning with dominant narratives, contest existing representations of them, or challenge regulations that exclude them. These strategies reveal the frictions and gaps within infrastructural systems and the creative ways in which disadvantaged minority groups attempt to reroute access to citizenship. For example, LGBT individuals may form kinship relations that align with the heteronormative family to gain social or legal recognition, while women heads of household may present themselves as morally deserving through narratives of sacrifice and resilience. Infrastructure has organizing or ordering effects, but, as Lauren Berlant (2016) points out, it is not identical to system or structure because infrastructure is defined by the movement or patterning of social form. Such a characterization emphasizes relationality, as in the ways “doing” gender (West & Zimmerman, 1987; Deutsch, 2007; Schilt & Westbrook, 2009) is observable within social interactions or gender “performativity” in both compelled utterance and subversive speech acts of resignification (Butler, 1990; Sedgwick, 1993). Citizens are not only actors who shape politics through demands and negotiation but also subjects constituted by politics, as rightsbearers, as moral agents, and as legitimate or illegitimate recipients of state protection. Within this framework, “doing” gender, meaning aligning oneself with the expectations of gender binary, heterosexual, reproductive family roles, becomes a precondition for full political 43 According to Wuthnow, culture is not reducible to ideas or values but consists of patterns of expression (the forms of which may be embodied in rituals and institutional practices) through which meanings are conveyed and maintained. Moments of uncertainty that may arise from rapid social change or emerging social movements challenging dominant values may become a “source of cultural production” (Wuthnow, 1978, pp. 12–13, 344–347). === [PDF page 35] === 35 membership and recognition. “Doing” gender is not just a symbolic or interpersonal act; it is also a necessity. Individuals must continuously present themselves in ways that match institutional expectations to be recognized by the operating moral infrastructure. This includes being recognized as a wife or husband in legal documents, a legitimate parent in welfare databases, or a moral subject in the eyes of social workers, bureaucrats, and legal officials. Those who fail to do so, such as unmarried women, queer couples, gender-nonconforming individuals, or those living outside normative family structures, are often misrecognized, excluded, or rendered illegible. They may lose child custody, be denied legal protection, or become ineligible for government aid. In this way, moral infrastructure produces unequal citizenship, where some individuals are granted full access to rights and resources while others are only partially recognized or systematically excluded. To understand exclusion, analysis of regimes may extend beyond institutions and policy to the semiotic field of governance. Julia Adams and Tasleem Padamsee (2002, p. 191) note: The usual understanding of “regime” in the mainstream welfare literature relies on only … the relationship among nodes/bodies/organizations. Signs are not in the picture because it is assumed that actors have interests, that those interests arise straightforwardly from people’s social positions (which are the same as their identities), and that they are evoked transparently and referentially in the political sphere. In other words, regimes are composed of both institutional arrangements and networks of linked signs that facilitate mutual recognition (Adams & Padamsee, 2001, 2002). 44 “Motherhood” or “mothers” are examples of such signs. Motherhood is not simply a biological fact but a sign or 44 Adams and Padamsee’s Signs and Regimes (2001) investigate how gender matters to welfare politics and the conceptual and analytical tools employed by feminist theorists and sociologists studying state policy-making and governance (see also “gender regime”). In their essay, signs refer to the “prevailing images of and emotionally charged judgments about what counts as feminine and masculine: they organize the relations among individuals, groups, organizations, and other agents authorized to operate on the field of power” (p. 2). === [PDF page 36] === 36 category connected to otherwise separate categories that invoke citizenship and how the state itself is represented: Initially, making the sociological claim that maternalist ideas matter in politics involves showing how the sign of “motherhood” organizes and links together a number of otherwise separate and subordinate signs. This means looking more closely at how the category of mother is simultaneously represented as opposed to other less politically productive categories (such as worker, etc.) at any given historical moment and linked to other signs that evoke citizenship and public participation. Women under a maternalist regime are represented as ideal citizens principally because of their presumed capacities to mother; correlatively, the state is represented as a possible maternal utopia (Adams & Padamsee, 2001, p. 11). The family, too, may become a privileged cultural sign. Representations of the family as heterosexual and reproductive operate as key signs that shape who is recognized as a proper citizen; this is how people may represent themselves as ideal citizens. In turn, the state’s insistent reliance on the idealized assumptions of the heteronormative family in laws, policies, and public discourse serves as a signifying mechanism, constituting certain individuals as legitimate citizens and rendering others as deviant or outside the bounds of citizenship and national belonging. 45 Through such discursive practices, individuals come to recognize themselves (or be granted recognition) as particular kinds of subjects, as wives, husbands, mothers, and fathers, within the framework of state-defined citizenship.46 This exclusionary form of citizenship operates through both formal legal mechanisms and moral discourses, shaping who is seen as belonging and who is cast as a threat. 45 This signifying process is closely linked to what Louis Althusser (1971) describes as interpellation: the process by which individuals are ‘hailed’ into subject positions by ideological structures and become recognizable as subjects within a given social order. 46 The recognition of being a citizen often comes with how an individual is situated within a particular family arrangement, such as a mother, father, wife, husband, or dependent child. === [PDF page 37] === 37 Welfare politics, population control policies, family law, and identity systems are all built upon the moral infrastructure that assumes and enforces a heteronormative, patriarchal family model comprising a male breadwinner, a female caregiver, and a small number of children.47 Cases and Propositions In this study, I focus on two disadvantaged minority groups (women heads of household and LGBT individuals) to understand how they are differently situated within the national narrative and dominant discourses of family, morality, citizenship, and national belonging.48 Comparing how these groups relate to the dominant majority and the state is useful for delineating the boundaries of citizenship in Indonesia. Women heads of household and the LGBT community arguably make a good comparison. 49 Both groups have gained political visibility since the end of the authoritarian regime, and both are spatially dispersed disadvantaged minority groups (unlike ethnic minorities or religious minorities that tend to create enclaves). Both groups lack visible markings, making them difficult to identify at a glance. Both are also small in number compared with the majority of individuals in Indonesia. By making a comparison between these groups, I do not intend to overlook their differences or the distinctive consequences they have to bear in their everyday lives. However, it is of interest to compare these groups, as there have been no efforts to criminalize or persecute women heads of household for “flipping the script” on the nuclear family 47 Family laws encompass the set of legal regulations that govern key aspects of family life, such as marriage, divorce, child custody, guardianship, adoption, and inheritance. These laws also extend to areas that influence rights within families, including property ownership in marriage and the ability to pass on nationality to spouses and children. 48 Women heads of household refer to women who become primary providers (breadwinners) in their respective households wherein men are absent or ancillary, regardless of marriage status. 49 Premarital sex, though subject to significant moral and legal debates in Indonesia, is not the focus of this study. Unlike women heads of household and LGBT individuals, who are perceived as identifiable social categories or groups of people, premarital sex is perceived as a form of behavior rather than an identity or national subject. === [PDF page 38] === 38 and its embedded ideal of having a dominant heterosexual man as the head of household, unlike the case of LGBT individuals who have been targeted and persecuted by the state. This categorization serves merely as a heuristic tool to map out comparisons between different groups. It would be apparent that each group is complex and cannot be forced to fit neatly into a single category that belies intra-group variations. Within the dominant public discourse, however, their differences tend to be conflated. More importantly, “LGBT” and “women heads of household” can both be understood as categories of people, but they differ in how they relate to identity as a basis for recognition (or exclusion). When comparing how women heads of household and LGBT individuals are situated within the dominant discourses, I focus on the period after the 1998 Reformasi. The post-Reformasi period includes the early unstable governments of B.J. Habibie (1998–1999), Abdurrahman Wahid (1999–2001), and Megawati Sukarnoputri (2001–2004). This turbulent period was followed by Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono’s presidency (2004–2014) and Joko Widodo’s presidency (2014– 2024). The merging of these different periods under the rubric “post-1998” may not sufficiently illustrate the changing relationship between the Indonesian state and the groups being studied due to the lack of consistency in government policies and governing practices that have impacted these groups across periods. Nonetheless, the transition to democracy in 1998 did spur political contestation and contributed to defining changes at the institutional and discourse levels. These changes include the introduction of new avenues for political contestation (for example, the establishment of the constitutional court), claim-making methods (for example, a judicial review petition), and newer discourses of identity. 50 Thus, the fall of the authoritarian regime in 1998 50 The Constitutional Court was established in 2003 during a time of political chaos, violence, and possibility of constitutional breakdown. Under the New Order, Suharto and his bureaucracy, as well as the military, served as the === [PDF page 39] === 39 serves as a marker for my analytical periodization, although variations exist not only between but also within these periods. 51 Below are my two propositions to explain the differentiated citizenship among disadvantaged minority groups in post-1998 Indonesia: Proposition 1 Disadvantaged groups who refuse or fail to conform to the dominant narratives of family and national belonging that privilege the heteronormative family are perceived as threatening and thus more likely to experience repression and exclusion from full citizenship. This dynamic is exemplified in the case of the LGBT group in post-1998 Indonesia. The conception of citizenship in Indonesia is intertwined with the construction of a heteronormative family model serving as a moral infrastructure. The “proper citizen” is closely tied to ideals of the heteronormative family, structuring both intimate life and national moral order. Groups that visibly challenge or potentially destabilize this construct, such as the LGBT group, are perceived not simply as different but as inherently threatening. They are positioned as a perceived threat because their identities and existence challenge the very basis of this normative construct. They are not simply seen as individuals deviating from the norm but as a group whose ultimate arbiters for political conflicts. This power, however, was challenged after the 1998 Reformasi. The supreme court's waning legitimacy and its lack of jurisdiction also further necessitate the creation of legal mechanisms to address disputes among political actors and the state over the shifting political order. During the turbulent periods after Reformasi, the constitutional court’s role in preventing elite fragmentation is considered crucial to fostering democracy (Crouch, 2010). However, its later involvement in contentious political and moral issues outside electoral disputes has raised concerns about the court’s judicial activism and possible politicization. As Ran Hirschl (2006, p. 721) notes, there is an increased trend to rely on courts and judicial process amoung countries in Southeast Asia to address “core moral predicaments, public policy questions, and political controversies.” 51 Another possible and more detailed periodization is based on the perceived stability of the regimes as follows: (1) 1970s–1980s, in which the rule of the New Order regime was already consolidated; (2) late 1980s–mid-2000s of transitional periods from authoritarian to a more democratic regime; and (3) 2004–present when the post-1998 regime has become relatively stable, and new institutional directions have started to take effect. See, for example, in Hastuti Dewi (2015). === [PDF page 40] === 40 presence potentially destabilizes the family and the embedded categories of gender and sexuality within it. LGBT individuals are perceived as “outsiders within” (in contrast to non-citizens), thus their claims for recognition are not necessarily perceived as demands from rightful citizens but as existential threats. This perceived threat is both symbolic and material: symbolically, LGBT individuals disrupt the gender binaries and family norms that legitimate existing moral order; materially, their recognition could imply legal and policy shifts that alter institutional frameworks built around the heteronormative family. Because recognition of LGBT rights would necessitate reconfiguring the basics of governance, resistance to their inclusion is intense and often framed as a matter of national emergency. This perception legitimizes both societal resistance and state repression, as the state mobilizes to exclude and discipline this group. Proposition 2 Disadvantaged groups who succeed in aligning themselves with dominant narratives of family and national belonging that privilege the heteronormative family are more likely to gain recognition and access to full citizenship. This dynamic is exemplified in the case of the women heads of household group in post-1998 Indonesia. Women heads of household deviate from the idealized family structure but are not perceived as a threat to the heteronormative family. Their existence is understood as an exception within the normative system, rather than as a challenge to the system itself. This allows the state to address its exclusion without confronting or altering the underlying moral infrastructure based on the heteronormative family. Once recognized as a social group and politically visible, women heads of household are thus positioned as vulnerable but legitimate subjects of the state rather than threats to moral order. While women heads of household experience structural disadvantage, their position === [PDF page 41] === 41 is not framed as incompatible with the heteronormative moral infrastructure. Rather, their claims are framed in terms of economic need and welfare eligibility. Thus, women heads of household are more easily integrated into the existing discourse of citizenship and, in particular, fit into the dominant discourse of national development. Their inclusion can be justified within the logic of state benevolence. Because their claims can be accommodated without requiring a redefinition of the normative family, the state can engage women heads of household as subjects without destabilizing the existing moral order and identity. This opens pathways for their partial inclusion through welfare programs and legal protections, producing more inclusionary citizenship experiences relative to the LGBT group. These propositions emphasize that the experience of citizenship for disadvantaged minority groups in Indonesia is conditioned in relation to how much the groups can align themselves with the heteronormative family and national identity. Groups whose existence is perceived as destabilizing the foundational categories of gender, family, and sexuality are more likely to encounter repression and exclusion, while those whose deviation can be accommodated without foundational disruption are more likely to receive recognition and inclusion, albeit in a limited and conditional form. This framework highlights how moral governance operates as a key mechanism through which citizenship is differentiated in contemporary Indonesia. Methods This study is based on 18 months of fieldwork conducted in Indonesia between fall 2022 and spring 2024. To investigate how the heteronormative family as a moral infrastructure is constructed, maintained, contested, and negotiated by the two groups under study, I rely primarily === [PDF page 42] === 42 on archival materials collected from the National Library of Indonesia (Perpustakaan Nasional Indonesia) and the National Archives of the Republic of Indonesia (Arsip Nasional Republik Indonesia), as well as community archives such as the Queer Indonesia Archive. This dissertation includes three substantive chapters, each drawing on a distinct set of sources to examine how citizenship is intertwined with the heteronormative family. The primary data sources for Chapters 2 and 4 are news articles from Kompas and Tempo, two of Indonesia’s most prominent news outlets. These periodicals offer extensive coverage of key issues and serve as a window into public discourse surrounding critical events. Selection criteria for news articles included thematic relevance to the research questions, publication within the study’s designated timeframe, and prominence within the socio-political context of the period. I also examined state documents accessed through the National Library and National Archives. These include governmental reports, policy papers, official speeches, and other state-produced materials, which provide insight into the official narratives and ideologies espoused by the state. Documents were selected based on their historical significance and relevance to the themes explored. Chapter 3 focuses on two contemporary legal debates: the Family Resilience Bill and the AILA judicial review petition, both of which seek to criminalize a wide range of extramarital sexual practices. Data sources include proposed bill drafts, academic manuscripts (naskah akademik), court transcripts, news reports, and secondary literature. 52 A timeline outlining key moments, major actors, and shifts in public understanding provides an overview of each case. For further analysis, I zoom in on key moments, focusing on what kinds of acts or behaviors get defined 52 The data set for the analysis of the AILA judicial review petition includes 20 transcripts from Constitutional Court hearings held between June 2016 and February 2017. These transcripts include expert testimonies and arguments presented by the petitioners, legal scholars, and state representatives. It also includes the final ruling (putusan) issued by the Court in December 2017. === [PDF page 43] === 43 as problems; what the problems are about; why such problems need state intervention; how certain concepts become legitimized (and by whom); and who constructed the “evidence” or justification. This would show the process of claiming what the “problem” is about (e.g., national emergency or family resilience), legitimizing the problem, and suggesting possible interventions (e.g., rehabilitation or legal punishments). The perceived problem and proposed interventions may be legitimized by authorization (e.g., personal experience of women and mothers or experts’ testimonies), rationalization (risk calculus), and references to the past (long history). Discourse analysis is conducted to interrogate how certain subjects, identities, or actions come to be perceived as “threats” within texts that often present themselves as neutral or objective but are embedded in and shaped by specific normative assumptions. This approach also allows for the examination of how similar or divergent truth claims are articulated across different documents, revealing patterns of consistency, contradiction, or silence. I identify recurring tropes and analyze which ones are dominant and which are rendered invisible or unspeakable. This process reveals a network of meanings that illuminates how discourse shapes the ways certain subjects or actions are understood, affirms the legitimacy of particular narratives, and constrains or enables possibilities for political and legal intervention. I attempted to remain attentive to how my own positionality shaped interpretive choices, particularly around culturally specific terms (e.g., zina, kodrat, or penyimpangan) and the operating institutional logics.53 The analysis reveals how legal and political debates, serving as 53 As a graduate student working across Indonesia and the United States, as a state subject, and part of the queer community, I am embedded within the very structures I seek to examine, both shaped by and attuned to the moral, legal, and affective regimes that govern intimacy, desire, and familial relations. I approach the state not as an abstraction but as a set of governing rationalities and everyday practices that shape lived experience (see also AbuLughod 1990), particularly apparent for those whose lives deviate from normative frameworks of family and sexuality. My research is guided by a dual commitment to tracing the workings of state power and fostering === [PDF page 44] === 44 battlegrounds for competing normative claims about citizenship and identity, contribute to the construction of citizenship in Indonesia, one that is anchored in the ideal of the heteronormative family. The analysis also highlights how effective rhetorics are strategically mobilized within these discourses to justify regulatory interventions and reinforce moral boundaries. All sources used are publicly available, and no personal or confidential data are involved. Study Overview This dissertation explores how citizenship and national belonging in post-Reformasi Indonesia are shaped by cultural scripts surrounding the heteronormative family. The state governs the population by upholding the family as a moral infrastructure, both a normative ideal and a technology of governance. This form of governance operates on multiple levels, notably through the drafting and enactment of laws that explicitly define family structures, gender roles, and sexual practices in ways that privilege heterosexual marriage. Policies such as marriage laws and social welfare programs linked to marital and reproductive status all serve to institutionalize a rigid normative framework through which the state governs its citizens. These regulatory instruments not only reinforce heteronormative ideals for citizens but also define the limits of their citizenship. Focusing on LGBT groups and women heads of household, this dissertation investigates why these groups experience citizenship in distinct and often unequal ways, emphasizing how their exclusion is rooted in different historical trajectories and the extent to which they can align themselves with dominant discourses of family and national belonging. While both groups solidarities with communities who resist, navigate, or reimagine the nation-state as a political community. I see my research practice as a continuous negotiation with the privileges and precarity of my social positioning, each of which informs how I access, interpret, and represent the data. === [PDF page 45] === 45 challenge the ideal of the heterosexual nuclear family, they are positioned differently within public discourse and the state’s governing framework. LGBT individuals are often cast as threats to moral order and national unity, resulting in heightened social stigma, vulnerability, and erasure. In contrast, women heads of household can fit into the dominant narrative of national development as both vulnerable and productive, with their identity framed as a product of unfortunate circumstances rather than inherent. Hence, they have greater potential to access both public and state recognition and support. Rather than treating citizenship as a static legal category, the study approaches it as a dynamic and contested process. It examines how both groups have responded to the political openings created by the 1998 Reformasi. By analyzing how they articulate their claims, selfpresentation, and engagement with dominant narratives of family and national belonging, the dissertation reveals how access to citizenship is mediated by conformity to heteronormative ideals. Ultimately, it argues that citizenship in contemporary Indonesia operates as a stratified system, in which recognition and protection are unevenly distributed based on perceived alignment with the culturally and morally sanctioned heteronormative family. Chapter 1 introduces the concept of the heteronormative family as a moral infrastructure through which the boundaries of citizenship and national belonging are constructed and contested in Indonesia. This framework highlights how the family operates not only as a normative ideal but also as a governing technology that reproduces existing moral order, legitimizes state authorities, and structures access to rights and recognition. In doing so, it determines whether and how citizens can claim the bundle of rights afforded to them. === [PDF page 46] === 46 Chapter 2 traces the evolution of such a framework from the late colonial period to the post-Reformasi era, focusing in particular on the formation of the Marriage Law to show how cultural scripts around family and national identity mirror each other and are inscribed into laws and policies. It highlights the interplay between the state, and religious and customary (adat) authorities in governing intimate life and defining who qualifies as a proper citizen. Chapter 3 analyzes two contemporary cases that illustrate efforts to further reinforce the heteronormative family as a moral infrastructure: the proposed Family Resilience Bill and the judicial review petition submitted by the conservative pro-family organization Aliansi Cinta Keluarga (AILA). Drawing on court transcripts, policy drafts, and public discourse, this chapter shows how both initiatives sought to criminalize a wide array of non-normative identities and practices outside the heterosexual nuclear family. In doing so, they maintain clear boundaries between “proper” and “legitimate” citizens and those deemed deviant or undeserving of full recognition. Chapter 4 shows how the state, despite constitutional promises of equality, governs intimate life through the heteronormative family and reproduces social and moral order. Through a focus on two disadvantaged groups, the LGBT group and women heads of household, this chapter discusses how access to key citizenship rights, such as the right to form a family or to receive state assistance during times of need, becomes contingent on individuals’ ability to conform to heteronormative ideals. The privileges accorded to the heteronormative family often compel individuals to conform or “pass” within these frameworks to be recognized as legitimate state subjects. This chapter emphasizes the continued centrality of marriage and family in delineating citizenship boundaries. Through such measures, the state legitimizes particular family === [PDF page 47] === 47 models and intimacy while marginalizing and rendering other ways of living and relationships illegitimate. This process reinforces a broader system of social control that disciplines bodies, desires, and identities in alignment with a state-sanctioned moral order. Chapter 5 offers a synthesis of the dissertation’s key findings and contributions. It reflects on how citizenship in contemporary Indonesia is coconstitutive of the cultural scripts around the heteronormative family and how it serves as a moral infrastructure. This final chapter also considers the broader implications for debates on gender, sexuality, and citizenship. === [PDF page 48] === 48 Chapter Two The Marriage Plot A central question in the governance of family is whether, and to what extent, family matters should fall under the authority of the state. In its doxic formulation, family life is often viewed as a private domain, distinct from and beyond the reach of direct state intervention. In practice, however, what constitutes a family holds public significance not only as an ideal or unit of administration but also as a conduit through which the state enacts control by rendering its subjects legible and subject to interventions. To govern citizens, the state relies on a particular model of family (i.e., the heteronormative family) as moral infrastructure: an embedded and often invisible assemblage of meanings, practices, and institutional arrangements that mediate moral judgments, shape affective and ethical dispositions, and determine access to rights, recognition, and legitimacy (Chapter 1). Such an infrastructure installs a kind of framework grounded in heteronormative assumptions about gender, sexuality, kinship, and intimacy. It determines what counts as a “problem” and what qualifies as a “solution,” embedding these assumptions into bureaucratic procedures, administrative forms, resource flows, affective orientations, and power relations. I trace the evolution of this moral infrastructure by examining how the family came to be defined throughout debates surrounding marriage law from the colonial period to the postReformasi era. This process reveals how cultural scripts around family are inscribed into legal frameworks and subsequently underpin other regulations. Understanding marriage as the sole === [PDF page 49] === 49 entryway into a recognized and legitimate family opens theoretical space to understand how society is organized and how a political community is imagined. 54 I focus on debates surrounding marriage across three distinct yet interconnected periods. The earliest debates of the late 1920s and 1930s situated marriage within broader nationalist discourse, raising questions about gender and power relations within the family and the emerging state. By the 1950s, these discussions had crystallized into a push for legislative reform. The debates culminated in the codification of Law No. 1 of 1974 on Marriage (henceforth, the Marriage Law) and highlighted the interplay between the state, religious authorities, and customary (adat) authorities in governing intimate life. I find that contestations over defining marriage that unfolded during the drafting of the law mirrored broader struggles over national identity. Both marriage and national identity (articulated in Pancasila and the preamble of the Constitution) are negotiated compromises purportedly aimed at unifying the nation while determining the place of Islam in Indonesian society. In the decades that followed, from the late 1970s through the 1990s, institutional transformations took shape as legal frameworks solidified and state practices began adapting to a governance model that centered on the family and, by extension, marriage. Across time, debates about the family (and along with it, marriage) remain central in both intellectual and political discourse. Scholars in various disciplines have long grappled with questions about what constitutes a family (Holstein & Gubrium, 1999; Malinowski & Briffault, 1956; Smith, 1993), its origins (Engels, 1884/1988; Gough, 1971), its changes (Cherlin, 2004; Goode, 1993; Therborn, 2004), and whether it should be reformed or abolished (Federici, 2012; Firestone, 1970; O’Brien, 2023; Okin, 1989; Weeks, 1998). Despite predictions of its decline or 54 See Gash & Yamin (2016) on how the family becomes an extension of the state as more policies are grounded in normative assumptions about family and household structure. === [PDF page 50] === 50 deinstitutionalization (Cherlin, 2004; Therborn, 2007), the nuclear family persists as a social reality and a contested site where competing claims and struggles over both its own and social reproduction are fought. In Indonesia, the validation of marriage by the state is a newer intervention. Rather than an agreement between two individuals, families, or kin groups to match, marriage’s validity is now contingent upon formal recognition and sanction by both the state and religious institutions, such as the church or the Office of Religious Affairs (Kantor Urusan Agama, KUA) and Islamic courts, as mandated by the Marriage Law. Once enacted, however, it managed to persist throughout political transitions, changes in the Constitution, and economic crises. To this day, it continues to serve as a key legal instrument through which the state governs the family and intimate life. Normative assumptions about family embedded within the Marriage Law have effectively tied marriage and family to ideas about who counts as a “proper” citizen and continued to underpin state policies and practices, shaping citizens’ lives. Much like a narrative device, the marriage plot prevails in life as a reality where it is assumed that everyone will eventually get recognizably and legitimately married and form a heterosexual nuclear family to attain a happy and prosperous life. 55 Early Debates on Marriage (Late 1920s–1930s) During the colonial period, the constitution of the Netherlands Indies (Indische Staatsregeling) classified the population into three groups: Europeans, Natives, and Foreign 55 The national family planning program, for example, adopted the Norma Keluarga Kecil Bahagia dan Sejahtera (small, happy and prosperous family norm), oriented toward (heterosexual) families, which excluded unmarried couples. The program also linked family planning to welfare and poverty (see Niehof & Lubis, 2003). === [PDF page 51] === 51 Orientals (Chinese, Indians, and Arabs).56 The indigenous population was subject to European criminal law, but civil matters such as family and marriage were governed by diverse customary (adat) laws shaped by three different kinship structures, as long as no written regulations applied (Prodjodikoro, 1984).57 For Muslims, marriage was also subject to Islamic law where religious courts existed, thus making a strict separation between adat and Islamic law difficult to sustain. This plural legal order produced a patchwork of overlapping authorities (colonial civil codes, religious courts, and local adat councils) that governed marriage and family life. Europeans and Chinese Indonesians were subject to the Burgerlijk Wetboek (Civil Code) of 1847 (amended in 1917), Christians were subject to the Huwelijks Ordonantie Voor Christen Indonesiers (Marriage Ordinance for Christian Indonesians) of 1933 (revised in 1936), and the vast majority of Indonesians, who are mostly Muslims, were subject to a largely uncodified mix of adat and Islamic law (Katz & Katz, 1975). This fragmented system left a wide gap in legal protection, particularly for Muslim women, whose rights in marriage were not recognized. Under stricter interpretations of Islamic law, they could be married, divorced, or unwillingly engage in polygamous unions at the discretion of male guardians or husbands, with little opportunity to resist (Soewondo, 1977). It was within such a complex and gendered legal landscape that discussions on marriage law unfolded alongside postcolonial nation-building. 56 For a fuller discussion on marriage regulations during this period, see Locher-Scholten (2004) and Vreede-de Stuers (1960). 57 The three primary kinship structures in Indonesia are as follows: (1) patrilineal (patriarchaat, vaderrechtelijk), found among Batak, Gayo, Ambonese, Timorese, and Balinese; (2) matrilineal (matriarchaat, moederrechtelijk) in Minangkabau; (3) bilineal or parental (parenteel, ouderrechtelijk), the most widespread family structure across Indonesia, including Java, Madura, East Sumatra, Aceh, South Sumatra, Kalimantan, Sulawesi, Ternate, and === [PDF page 52] === 52 In the 1920s and 1930s, debates on marriage and women’s roles within the family were deeply embedded in nationalist discourse. Key issues included child marriage, kawin paksa (forced marriage), polygamy, and talak (repudiation), which often left women vulnerable. 58 Additionally, divorced women were typically entitled to meager financial support for only a brief period of time, thus leaving them in a precarious economic position. At the First Indonesian Women’s Congress on December 22–25, 1928, in Yogyakarta, a motion was passed to strengthen taklik talak (a marriage agreement in which the husband grants his wife the right to seek divorce under specific conditions), among other measures.59 The motion aimed to ensure that the penghulu (a marriage official) provided a clearer and more detailed explanation of taklik to both the bride and groom during the marriage ceremony (Blackburn, 2007).60 This was seen as a temporary measure to address women’s disadvantaged position within marriage. Although, as Cora Vreede-de Stuers (1960) notes, this provision offers only limited protection, as divorce depends entirely on whether 58 In Indonesia, a Muslim man may divorce his wife by merely saying “I divorce thee” three times (talak) regardless of the wife’s consent. If he says these words only once or twice, he then has three months (iddah period) within which he may reconcile with his wife by merely saying “I reconcile with thee.” Women can only initiate divorce through gugat cerai (“divorce petition”), which requires filing a case in the Religious Courts (for Muslims) or District Courts (for non-Muslims). Unlike men, who may repudiate a marriage more directly through talak in Islamic law, women must go through a judicial process that not only makes women’s access to divorce more bureaucratic and time-consuming but also subjects their claims to judicial scrutiny, where judges may evaluate whether their reasons (either neglect, abuse, or lack of financial support) are sufficient to dissolve the marriage. 59 The First Indonesian Women’s Congress produced resolutions and motions for the would-be established Perikatan Perempuan Indonesia (PPI): (1) to establish PPI as a consultative assembly and an umbrella for women’s organizations; (2) to create a dedicated scholarship for girls who could not afford school; (3) to strengthen girl scout education (padvinsterij or pandu puteri, or pramuka, which was popular among nationalists at the time); (4) to prevent child marriage; (5) to send a motion to the government requesting that financial assistance for widows and orphans be continued and expanded, and that more schools for girls be established; (6) to send a motion to religious councils urging that taklik in accordance with Islamic teachings be reinforced in writing and communicate this motion to People’s Representative Council and the press (Blackburn, 2007). 60 Divorce through talak (repudiation) allowed a man to end his marriage without any obligation to provide alimony. However, within both customary (adat) and Islamic legal traditions in Indonesia, women retained one legal avenue for seeking divorce: the taklik clause. This provision, which appears to have been particular to Islam in Indonesia, required the husband to recite a statement shortly after the wedding ceremony. The taklik (ta’līk at talāk) stipulated that the wife had the right to seek divorce if the husband mistreated her or failed to fulfill specific conditions set at the time of marriage. See also Vreede-de Stuers (1960). === [PDF page 53] === 53 the wife chooses to bring legal action against her husband before a presiding judge. While taklik provides a layer of protection for women if invoked, it presumes equal access to legal recourse, whereas in practice, women often lack the means to navigate the legal system. Moreover, such an act may also be perceived as deviance and potentially expose women to stigma and public scrutiny, including in courts that were commonly staffed by male judges and religious authorities. The Indonesian Women’s Congress was attended by representatives from 29 women’s organizations and 21 other associations, delegations from the government, and the press. During the Congress, marriage and women’s position within it were some of the issues specifically addressed. Mrs. R.A. Soedirman of Putri Budi Sejati delivered a speech titled “Pergerakan Perempuan, Perkawinan dan Perceraian” (The Women’s Movement, Marriage, and Divorce), emphasizing women’s subordination and lack of autonomy in entering marital unions and within marriage.61 Her speech began by defining what constitutes a marriage: “Marriage” means a union between a man and a woman [emphasis added] to live together and jointly fulfill all needs and matters related to life. The man and the woman each fulfill their respective responsibilities [emphasis added] to the best of their ability so that their shared life may become complete.62 Although there was not yet a unified marriage law for Muslims, marriage as the entryway into a heterosexual nuclear family was already institutionalized as a social practice, as it provides fixed roles (husband, wife), predictable expectations (monogamy, procreation, division of labor), and social sanctions.63 It had already become a taken-for-granted, objective social reality (Berger & Kellner, 1964, 1965). It remains stable over time and resists changes as it is naturalized as “the 61 Women used their husbands’ or fathers’ names. Hence, prefixes such as “Mrs.” were usually used. A speech by Mrs. R. A. Soedirman, representative of Putri Budi Sejati, “Pergerakan Perempuan, Perkawinan dan Perceraian” [The Women’s Movement, Marriage, and Divorce], delivered at the Indonesian Women’s Congress, 1928. 63 On the process of institutionalization of marriage, see Berger and Kellner (1964, 1965). 62 === [PDF page 54] === 54 proper way of doing things.” Through socialization, individuals internalize it as reality and transmit these norms across generations, thereby ensuring the continuity of the institution. Mrs. R.A. Soedirman delivered a fiery speech against the practice of kawin paksa (forced marriage), in which women’s consent could be represented by her wali (male guardian), and talak (repudiation): The right to refuse, the right to speak according to one’s own views, let alone the right to marry according to one’s own will, just as men may freely choose their wives, are denied to women. Even if a man is unattractive, unsuccessful, or not to our liking, as long as he wishes to marry us and our guardian has consented to it, we are compelled to agree, regardless of our young age, and it is us who must bear the consequences. The same conditions persist once we are in the hands of these men: whether we wish to or not, we must obey their commands. Should we resist, or should they grow weary of us, we are made to leave, cast aside, expelled, and discarded like worthless objects. To this day, in matters of “Women and Divorce,” women possess neither rights nor “freedom.” Our only rights are the ‘right to be married,’ the ‘right to be chosen for marriage,’ and the ‘right to be divorced.’ Indeed, as such is our fate.64 These customary practices, as Mrs. R.A. Soedirman argued, put women at a disadvantaged position as they curtailed women’s agency both in determining whether to enter into marriage and, once married, in exercising their rights and pursuing their own interests. Thus, rendering women as passive subjects in determining the course of their lives. 65 64 A speech by Mrs. R. A. Soedirman, a representative of Putri Budi Sejati, “Pergerakan Perempuan, Perkawinan dan Perceraian” [The Women’s Movement, Marriage, and Divorce], delivered at the Indonesian Women’s Congress, 1928. 65 Apart from kawin paksa and talak, consent within marriage (in particular within child marriage) was one of the issues highlighted during the Congress. Mrs. Moegaroemah, a representative of Putri Indonesia, demanded that resistance against the practice of child marriage be treated as an urgent priority. Although her condemnation of child marriage stemmed from the gendered division of labor that positioned women as primary caregivers responsible for their families and daughters, she went further to question the legitimacy of child marriage by emphasizing the importance of women’s consent in entering a marital union. The issue of child marriage is not discussed in this dissertation. However, it remains an important and enduring concern within the women’s movement across generations. A recent amendment to the Marriage Law, enacted through Law No. 16 of 2019, raised the minimum age of marriage for women from 16 to 19 years, thereby making it the same for both women and men. Studies on child marriage have been thoroughly discussed, for example, in Grijns et al. (2020). === [PDF page 55] === 55 Drawing a comparison with women’s conditions in the West, Mrs. Djojoadigoeno of Wanita Utomo noted that for women in the “East,” the central concern lay not in public participation but in the conditions of marital life itself. The problem with it lies in the unequal authority afforded to men regarding polygamy (“men are allowed to take multiple wives”) and (“to repudiate their wives at will”): In Java, government affairs are regarded as the responsibility of men. However, among the Bugis and Makassar communities, women have long held both the rights and responsibilities to participate in matters of governance. … In Europe, too, recently, women have gained the right to sit in parliament and to elect their representatives in parliament. The central concern of women in the East, however, does not lie there [in political participation], but rather in the conditions within marriage, as men are allowed to take multiple wives and to repudiate their wives at will.66 Nevertheless, both Mrs. R.A. Soedirman and Mrs. Djojoadigoeno did not challenge the gendering of roles separating husband and wife. Although not always articulated explicitly, the majority of the speeches delivered at the Congress centered on the understanding of kewajiban perempuan (women’s duties) and kodrat (natural order). Mrs. R.A. Soedirman, for instance, proclaimed: Thus, the better we fulfill our duties, the more skillfully we perform them, the more our lives within society become complete … The reason we are not valued in society today is that many of us women are unable to carry out our responsibilities, while others fail to understand the tasks necessary to fulfill those duties, and therefore do not value themselves. … And it is precisely for this reason that we are not respected by others, are denied our rights, and are regarded merely as useless beings, being mere objects of pleasure.67 Through the notion of kodrat, which also translates into the understanding of women’s duties, gender was inevitably naturalized. They argued that since both the husband and wife share 66 A speech by Mrs. Djojoadigoeno, representative of Wanita Utomo, “Kedudukan Perempuan dalam kehidupan Bersama” [Women’s Position in Public Life], delivered at the Indonesian Women’s Congress, 1928. 67 A speech by Mrs. R. A. Soedirman, a representative of Putri Budi Sejati, “Pergerakan Perempuan, Perkawinan dan Perceraian” [The Women’s Movement, Marriage, and Divorce], delivered at the Indonesian Women’s Congress, 1928. === [PDF page 56] === 56 responsibility for the family, they must work together and be equally valued. Although their duties differ, if done properly, there should be no hierarchy within marriage: We often hear women’s complaints about their position in comparison to men. The position of men and women, it is said, must be equal. This demand is discussed everywhere and often expressed with anger and bitter words. Yet kodrat [added emphasis] has men and women living together … The differences arise from the nature of their work. Heavy labor is performed by men, while lighter labor is performed by women. Managing the household is a woman’s duty, even though it is not an easy task. Caring for children is also part of women’s responsibilities. These, too, are noble and challenging forms of work. Likewise, men have many other duties that are also noble and challenging. Thus, although the work differs, there is no hierarchy.68 If Mrs. R.A. Soedirman viewed education as the key to addressing their disadvantaged position within marriage (“based on this situation, I hope that we begin to realize that what is most important now is education”), Mrs. Djojoadigoeno’s solution was for women to be self-sufficient: A woman who can earn her own living need not fear being abandoned by her husband. However, a woman whose life depends entirely on her husband lives in constant fear of him and of being left behind, as she finds it difficult or even impossible to support herself. … In my view, a woman who lacks the determination to seek their own livelihood generally suffers from poverty as they seem to be devoid of willpower and self-respect. Thus, intellectual women must guide their sisters in such circumstances so that they may foster the desire to attain dignity and self-worth.69 Such thinking was beginning to align with feminist perspectives that traced women’s subordination within marriage and family as stemming from their position as dependents (Hartmann, 1979; Okin, 1989; Pateman, 1988). Susan Moller Okin (1989), for example, noted that there should be equal vulnerability to avoid injustice and domination. Okin argued that such conditions are not met in marriage and family and that marriage itself causes vulnerability for women: 68 A speech by Mrs. Djojoadigoeno, representative of Wanita Utomo, “Kedudukan Perempuan dalam kehidupan Bersama” [Women’s Position in Public Life], delivered at the Indonesian Women’s Congress, 1928. 69 Ibid. === [PDF page 57] === 57 Few people would disagree with the statement that marriage involves, in some respects, especially emotionally, mutual vulnerability and dependence. It is, clearly, also a relationship in which some aspects of unequal vulnerability are not determined along sex lines … In crucial respects, gender-structured marriage involves women in a cycle of socially caused and distinctly asymmetric vulnerability. The division of labor within marriage (except in rare cases) makes wives far more likely than husbands to be exploited both within the marital relationship and in the world of work outside the home. To a great extent and in numerous ways, contemporary women in our society are made vulnerable by marriage itself. They are first set up for vulnerability during their developing years by their personal (and socially reinforced) expectations that they will be the primary caretakers of children, and that in fulfilling this role, they will need to try to attract and to keep the economic support of a man, to whose work life they will be expected to give priority. They are rendered vulnerable by the actual division of labor within almost all current marriages. They are disadvantaged at work by the fact that the world of wage work, including the professions, is still largely structured around the assumption that “workers” have wives at home. They are rendered far more vulnerable if they become the primary caretakers of children, and their vulnerability peaks if their marriages dissolve and they become single parents (Okin, 1989, pp. 138–139). In practice, vulnerability is tied to who earns the family’s income or how the earning of this income is shared and who is responsible for homemaking and caregiving. It determines the distribution of power and influence within the family, including decisions on how to spend this income. Women’s economic and social vulnerability is largely caused by the naturalization of female responsibility for rearing children, subordination to male counterparts, and dependence. Okin also notes that such conditions are difficult to overwrite, particularly concerning the responsibility for rearing children, due to the merging of women’s vulnerability with the largely natural, unavoidable vulnerability of children. Drawing from previous studies that argued exploitation can be averted if the subordinated party can withdraw without severe cost (Goodin, 1986) and that asymmetry of power within a relationship depends on the feasibility of exit options (Hirschman, 1970), Okin notes: In the case of a two-member institution, such as marriage, special dynamics result from the fact that exit by one partner does not just weaken the institution but rather results in its dissolution. Whether or not the other party wishes to exit, he or she is effectively expelled by the decision of the other to exit. Because of this, the relative potential of the exit option === [PDF page 58] === 58 for the two parties is crucial for the relationship’s power structure [emphasis added] (Okin, 1989, pp. 137–138). In addition to unequal vulnerability (economic, social, and legal) within marriage, the unilateral right of talak granted to husbands negatively affects the feasibility of exit options for women. Women are constrained by economic, legal, and social barriers to pursue separation, while men have a “low-cost,” institutionally supported exit option. Because men can exit at will, women’s dependence is all the riskier, and the threat of talak serves as a mechanism of control that shapes the power structure within the family. An enduring point of contention within the Indonesian women’s movement during the colonial period, when discussing the situation within the family and the state, was the tension between the West and the East and between Islam and nationalism. Islamic organizations tended to view Western influence with suspicion, perceiving it as a threat to their way of life, especially in matters concerning women and intimate lives. In contrast, nationalist movements and other Islamic women’s organizations affiliated with Islamic parties tended to be more receptive to Western attributes as they were deemed necessary to transform Indonesia into a “modern” nation, albeit with ambivalence given the underlying anxiety that their own cultural values might be eroded. In her speech, Titi Sastroamijojo, the wife of Ali Sastroamidjojo, who had just returned from a stay in Europe, shows this ambivalence most visibly. 70 While her speech revealed admiration for “kemajuan dan kemandirin perempuan barat” (the progress and autonomy of Western women), she was also wary about what she thought as the “excesses” of feminism: “We, 70 Ali Sastroamidjojo was a politician and diplomat during the era of revolution and under Sukarno’s presidency. He served as prime minister in the 1950s (1953–1957). === [PDF page 59] === 59 too, must achieve progress and freedom … yet we must remember that we have our own culture … Our progress and freedom must be adapted to our own conditions of life.” 71 Women who were expected to bear the burden of cultural reproduction through family and transmit traditions to the next generation found themselves having to mediate between Islam’s, nationalism’s, and colonialism’s interests (Blackburn, 2004; Chatterjee, 1989; Moghadam, 1994). Women had to negotiate their striving for “modernity” while preserving “national culture” within the bounds of the home, where traditions were supposedly reproduced. Partha Chatterjee, in the context of colonial India, argues: This was one aspect of the nationalist project of rationalizing and reforming the traditional culture of their people. But this could not mean the imitation of the West in every aspect of life, for then the very distinction between the West and the East would vanish—the selfidentity of national culture would itself be threatened. In fact, … not only was it undesirable to imitate the West in anything other than the material aspects of life, it was even unnecessary to do so, because in the spiritual domain the East was superior to the West. What was necessary was to cultivate the material techniques of modern Western civilization while retaining and strengthening the distinctive spiritual essence of the national culture. This completed the formulation of the nationalist project, and as an ideological justification for the selective appropriation of Western modernity, it continues to hold sway to this day (Chatterjee, 1989, p. 623). Women understood that a full imitation of the West in every aspect of life would risk threatening the distinction between the West and East and, in turn, also threaten the autonomous identity of the nascent nation-state that was important in anticolonial movements. However, a total rejection of the West would mean they could not embrace the long-coveted modernity. According to Chatterjee (1989), in India, the nationalist project may align itself with modernity by invoking difference as a principle of selection. The home was the principal site for pressing the spiritual quality of the national culture, and women had to take the main responsibility for protecting and nurturing this quality. 71 A speech by Mrs. Sastroamidjojo, “Keadaan Perempuan di Eropa” [The Women’s Conditions in Europe], delivered at the Indonesian Women’s Congress, 1928. === [PDF page 60] === 60 No matter what the changes in the external conditions of life for women, they must not lose their essentially spiritual (that is, feminine) virtues; they must not, in other words, become essentially Westernized. It followed, as a simple criterion for judging the desirability of reform, that the essential distinction between the social roles of men and women in terms of material and spiritual virtues must at all times be maintained. There would have to be a marked difference in the degree and manner of Westernization of women, as distinct from men, in the modern world of the nation (Chatterjee, 1989, pp. 626–627). In her speech, Mrs. Djojoadinegoro emphasized the importance of selection as follows: Women in the East often take Western women as their example. Therefore, we must study the conditions of the West carefully and with discernment. 72 Discernment and selection are required to define national identity, and it is particularly important at the cusp of the nation-state’s birth. Moreover, even though the home, the household, and the family are often seen as separate from the public and politics, they cannot be insulated from the changes brought by modernity. Instead, such changes made women’s duty to guard the inner moral and spiritual essence of the culture of the nation (values, customs, ideals, religiosity, and nationhood) more pronounced. The challenge is how the nation can be modernized without being Westernized. The national project is then to adopt Western technologies, institutions, and public practices (mostly through the work of men) and preserve cultural and spiritual virtues (mostly through women), thus determining the norm for organizing family life and the proper conduct for women. The Chair of the Congress, R.A. Soekonto, who represented the conservative Javanese organization, Wanito Utomo, delivered a speech that stood apart from the other speakers. Rather than pushing for equality or promoting women’s rights within the family and the emerging nation- 72 A speech by Mrs. Djojoadigoeno, representative of Wanita Utomo, “Kedudukan Perempuan dalam kehidupan Bersama” [Women’s Position in Public Life], delivered at the Indonesian Women’s Congress, 1928. === [PDF page 61] === 61 state, she offered prescriptive moral injunctions in a series of “oughts”: “Women ought to be diligent,” “women ought to be clean,” “women ought to understand household economy and how to manage their money.” The list was long and included specific prescriptions regarding attitude, too, such as: “Women ought to be polite,” “must guard themselves from disgrace,” and “must understand the desires of those within the household and be able to keep secrets.” 73 As Blackburn (2007, p. xii) also notes, “the substance of her speech could easily have been prepared for a Dharma Wanita meeting under the New Order regime.” While the notion of kewajiban perempuan (women’s duties) evolved across history and varied across regimes, it remains apparent that existing cultural scripts often put women in disadvantaged positions as they are recognized only in their relative position to men and their families. Contrary to women from nationalist organizations with more secular orientations, such as those of Putri Indonesia, and to women who had affinities with the broader nationalist movement (including figures like Mrs. Sastroamidjojo and Tien Sastrowirjo), representatives of women’s Islamic organizations appeared reluctant to join in the call for marriage reform and align themselves with Western ideals. The framings of issues such as polygamy, for example, widely differed. Tien Sastrowirjo’s resistance to polygamy was framed in nationalist language rather than religious: Polygamy is entirely harmful, for it brings unhappiness. Because it creates unrest, quarrels often happen. All of this weighs heavily on our hearts … Is this not a form of divide et impera [divide and rule]? Anyone who loves their homeland and nation and seeks to uphold the dignity of their people must abolish polygamy. … Polygamy breeds anxiety and, in turn, erodes love for one’s homeland and nation.74 73 A speech by R. A. Soekonto, “Kewajiban Perempuan di dalam Rumah Tangga” [Women’s Duties within the Household], delivered at the Indonesian Women’s Congress, 1928. 74 A speech by Tien Sastrowirjo, “Bagaimanakan Pergerakan Kaum Perempuan Sekarang dan Nanti?” [Present and Future Directions of the Women’s Movement?], delivered at the Indonesian Women’s Congress, 1928. === [PDF page 62] === 62 Meanwhile, Mrs. Siti Moendjijah of ‘Aisyiyah, in her speech titled “Derajat Perempuan” (“Women’s Status”), argued in defense of polygamy, a largely accepted practice in Islamic marriage: To those who ask such a question, we ask: “Is it more virtuous to make a woman’s honor and dignity a plaything than to marry her lawfully?” … Such questions arise from unfounded accusations against Islam. It is often claimed that Islam degrades women as it allows polygamy and grants men the right to talak. Yet it is, in fact, appropriate that women do not possess such authority. By nature, women are said to be more impulsive in their desires, less patient, more fragile, and more easily hurt, and so forth. … If women were given the authority to pronounce talak, there would likely be divorces every week. … The fact that men hold the authority to pronounce talak means that divorce lies within their discretion, exercised in accordance with religious law. Conversely, when a woman, after careful consideration, finds that her marriage is no longer advantageous or happy, there is nothing to prevent her from requesting talak from her husband, and he is obliged to grant it.75 Here, too, the asymmetry of power structure in marriage is naturalized as it is tied to perceived natural sexual differences between women and men, justified by a particular interpretation of Islamic precepts: Islamic law teaches that men and women are different. This difference, however, does not mean that there is a hierarchy between men and women … One must understand that women are born into the world with a kodrat distinct from that of men. For instance, men possess physical strength that enables them to perform heavy labor, whereas women do not; their physical strength is limited. Yet women bear responsibilities that men cannot fulfill, such as becoming pregnant, giving birth, breastfeeding, caring for, and educating children. If a woman is not skilled in performing men’s work, this should not be seen as a blemish. Conversely, if a man does not carry out women’s duties, this too is not reproachable. These are the natural rights and responsibilities of each which cannot be denied.76 Mrs. Sitti Moendjijah argued that it was non-Muslim women and Western women who faced limited rights within marriage, as Western perspectives and other religions had historically 75 A speech by Siti Moendjijah, “Derajat Perempuan” [Women’s Status], delivered at the Indonesian Women’s Congress, 1928. 76 Ibid. === [PDF page 63] === 63 perpetuated discrimination against women. Against the grain of the Congress, she lamented how women’s strife for progress had transgressed kodrat and ruined keperempuanan (femininity): Women’s advancement has gone beyond the bounds of their kodrat, forsaking their natural femininity. As part of this progress, there are now women working in factories, operating trains, airplanes, and so on. … But that is not the only sign of progress. There is also a new trend, that is, women cutting their hair short like men, and dressing in ways that imitate men. In short, women’s progress today seems driven by the desire not to be outdone by men in any respect, so much so that their femininity is no longer visible!77 The ideas about ideal marriage and family perceived hierarchy (father over mother, parents over children) as both natural and necessary to achieve harmony, a “unity within hierarchy” (see also, McClintock, 1995). Not all Islamic-affiliated organizations shared the same perspective concerning marital practices. Their interpretations differed as to what extent women’s rights could be realized in alignment with Islamic precepts. Nadhlatul Fatayat, the women’s branch of Nahdlatul Ulama (NU), advocated for the enactment of a marriage law aimed at strengthening women’s rights within marriage: facilitating women’s ability to initiate divorce, protecting them from arbitrary repudiation by their husbands, and affirming men’s responsibility to provide child support following divorce (Blackburn, 2007). In an effort to unify their voices while advocating for women, the Jong Islamieten Bond Dames Afdeling (JIBDA), the women’s wing of the Jong Islamieten Bond youth organization, called for a motion to be submitted to religious councils to address how the issues of women’s rights could be articulated. The link between marriage, the household (used interchangeably with family), and the nation was most explicitly articulated by Sitti Soendari, a representative of Putri Indonesia, who 77 Ibid. === [PDF page 64] === 64 employed nationalist rhetoric in her speech. Sitti Soendari was a contributor for Putri Hindia and had established Wanito Sworo, a publication focusing on discussions regarding women’s position in society (Blackburn, 2004). Her speech blended patriotic zeal with feminism. Her oratory style had been compared to that of Soekarno, Indonesia’s revolutionary leader and founding father, characterized by declamatory exhortations and the use of flowery, evocative language (Blackburn, 2007). Indonesia cannot become a noble and great nation if our households are merely dwellings and our marriages merely the union of two individuals. If Indonesia is to rise as a dignified nation in this world, we must build “homes” founded on love and marriages bound by mutual affection … Practices such as polygamy, child marriage, forced marriage, or prolonged separation without reason can no longer be practiced if we wish to honor the value of marriage. In short, the stronger our households, the stronger and more peaceful our nation will be [emphasis added]. Thus, a home filled with love and a marriage grounded in mutual affection are of profound importance to our nation.78 In this framing, the household and the family become a foundation of the national body. Thus, it makes the conduct of husbands and wives political and subject to national interest. Cultural scripts about the family anchored a cohesive narrative of national identity needed in the formation of a political community (see also Anderson, 2006). While this narrative does not necessarily serve as a universal truth, it provides a contingent script that organizes and gives meaning to individual and collective life. Tien Sastrowirjo noted in her speech: “Since marriage is of utmost importance to us given its profound impact on ourselves, our nation, and our homeland, it must be given due attention by all modern individuals in a modern society.” 79 The assertion that “marriage is of utmost importance” and must be given due attention by “all modern individuals in a modern 78 A speech by Sitti Soendari, Putri Indonesia, “Kewajiban dan Cita-cita Putri Indonesia” [Duties and Ideals of Indonesian Women], delivered at the Indonesian Women’s Congress, 1928. 79 A speech by Tien Sastrowirjo, “Bagaimanakan Pergerakan Kaum Perempuan Sekarang dan Nanti?” [Present and Future Directions of the Women’s Movement?], delivered at the Indonesian Women’s Congress, 1928. === [PDF page 65] === 65 society” reflects the broader nationalist logic. The character of the family was understood to shape the stability and character of the nation itself. The expectation that modern citizens must safeguard the quality of their marriages reflects the belief that personal moral discipline must align with the national moral order. Like most speakers in the Congress, Sitti Soendari also strongly emphasized women’s rights and civic duty: Across the world, women are striving to attain equality with men … In Indonesia, too, this principle of equality is valued … Our nation cannot prosper if only half of its people advance and receive attention, while the other half is left behind in ignorance. … Indeed, the relationship between men and women is not merely a struggle to claim rights, but to fulfill our respective obligations. If we, as women, understand our duties, if wives do not forget their responsibilities as wives, and daughters recognize their duties as daughters, then, and only then, will the true rights of women emerge. These rights rest upon women’s own recognition of themselves and, upon having clear recognition, of the corresponding duties of both men and women [emphasis added] … First, our duties within the household. … Within it, each must understand their responsibilities, for neither should seek to dominate the other, so each can perform their duties … In addition to duties within the household, there are also obligations in a second domain, namely, the domain of social life … The third duty, which is also rooted in compassion, is to assist our children and husbands in the fulfillment of their duties—whether in their daily responsibilities or in their duties to the nation and homeland … Only when we have carried out these duties can we, as mothers, be said to have been in great service to our families, to our nation, and to our homeland [emphasis added].80 Framed in this way, women’s rights are conditional on fulfilling familial and reproductive duties (McClintock, 1995; Pateman, 1988). Women are not just responsible for cultural reproduction; they must “earn” their rights through performing familial roles that are deemed moral. Their claim for national belonging (and later, their inclusion as citizens, too) is determined by whether they can carry these duties and how well they align with the prescribed familial roles. 80 A speech by Sitti Soendari, Putri Indonesia, “Kewajiban dan Cita-cita Putri Indonesia” [Duties and Ideals of Indonesian Women], delivered at the Indonesian Women’s Congress, 1928. === [PDF page 66] === 66 Throughout the 1920s–1930s, debates regarding marriage law were a particularly polarizing topic among women’s organizations. 81 The tensions between Islamic and nationalist groups, as well as between the West and the East, continue to shape such debates, with meanings of family, gender relations, and national belonging being at stake. During this period, heterosexuality as the dominant form of sexuality is relatively unchallenged and treated as a takenfor-granted, objective social reality. Even if variations in sexual and gender expressions were acknowledged, particularly within the context of rituals and customs (Davies, 2010, 2018; Peletz, 2012), a legitimate marriage is always understood as a union between men and women since before the nation-state is fully formed. As discussed earlier, the issue of polygamy became a major source of contention, which ultimately led to the fragmentation of the women’s federation in the mid-1930s (Blackburn, 2004). Although polygamy was discussed at the 1929 Indonesian Women’s Federation (Perikatan Perempuan Indonesia, PPI) Congress along with various issues concerning women’s rights and obligations, it was later deliberately omitted to maintain unity among its diverse member organizations in subsequent congresses (Vreede-de Stuers, 1960).82 Yet, despite this strategic omission, marriage and, particularly, polygamy remained a point of contention within the broader women’s movement. In 1930, Istri Sedar, a women’s organization led by Soewarni Djojoseputro, 81 Women's organizations such as Perwari and Gerwani played an active role in advocating for reforms related to marriage law, particularly opposing polygamy, as reflected in the history of marriage law while objections were mostly coming from Islamic factions in the government and from Islamic women’s organizations such as ‘Aisyiyah. These organizations sought to improve women's status within family and marriage (‘Aisyiyah’s stance on polygamy shifted much later). Furthermore, there were significant legal developments concerning second wife allowances, the legal age of marriage, and the provision of marriage dispensations for minors. 82 The Indonesian women’s movement initially united under Perikatan Perempuan Indonesia (PPI), which was established as a direct outcome of the First Indonesian Women's Congress, held in Yogyakarta in 1928. It was later renamed Perikatan Perempuan Indonesia Isteri (PPII). === [PDF page 67] === 67 publicly denounced polygamy as a “social crime” and refused to join PPII. 83 In contrast, ‘Aisyiyah, the women’s wing of the Muhammadiyah movement, took a different stance. 84 At its March 1932 congress, ‘Aisyiyah reaffirmed its support for polygamy, asserting that it was both legitimate and permissible within Islamic law. This fragmentation reflected hardened ideological tensions between secular feminist groups advocating for marriage reform and Islamic organizations seeking to modernize women’s roles within a religious framework. By the time of the second Indonesian Women’s Congress in 1935, the focus of the women’s movement had shifted toward examining women’s roles within Islamic law and exploring ways to enhance their rights while remaining aligned with its framework. To address these concerns, a commission was established to study marriage law called Komisi Penyelidik Hukum Perkawinan (Marriage Law Research Commission). The commission was led by Maria Ulfah Santoso, who later presented the commission’s findings in a working paper titled “Kedudukan Perempuan Indonesia dalam Hukum Perkawinan” (Women’s Position within Marriage Law). 85 It was ultimately concluded that polygamy should be abolished (Vreede-de Stuers, 1960). Organizations such as Istri Sedar and Isteri Indonesia shared this stance. Meanwhile, Islamic women’s organizations such as ‘Aisyiyah and the women’s branch of the Partai Sarekat Islam Indonesia defended polygamy on moral grounds, arguing that it served as a safeguard against 83 Istri Sedar was founded in 1930 and chaired by Ny. Suwarni Pringgodigdo. The organization initially participated in the Second Indonesian Women’s Congress in 1935 but later withdrew after a dispute concerning the status of women in Islamic law with a representative of the women’s wing of Persatuan Muslimin Indonesia (PERMI) from West Sumatra (Kowani, 1978). 84 ‘Aisyiyah was established in 1917 as an Islamic women’s organization under Muhammadiyah, one of the two largest Islamic-based mass organizations in Indonesia. 85 Maria Ulfah Santoso was a prominent figure in Indonesia’s women’s movement during the revolution and in the early years of the republic. She served as Minister of Social Affairs in the Sjahrir Cabinet (1946–1947) and as Chair of the Indonesian Women’s Congress (1950–1961); see Rasid (1982). === [PDF page 68] === 68 extramarital sexual relationships and prostitution. Although ‘Aisyiyah was particularly active in advocating for gender equality in religious practices and claimed that Islam provided women with more rights than any other religion, it perceives polygamous marriage as part of Islamic teachings and thus fundamentally unassailable. Conversely, other Islamic women’s organizations, such as Sarekat Kaum Ibu Sumatra and the JIBDA, opposed polygamy and instead advocated for reform through revised interpretations of Islamic law. These differing perspectives revealed contestations of meanings regarding marriage, family, and women’s duties within it. They also made visible the ideological tensions not only between the secular and Islamic women’s organizations but also within the Islamic women’s organizations themselves. While some reformists contended that Islamic law needed to be reinterpreted to safeguard women’s rights, others argued that the issue stemmed from misapplications of what they saw as fundamentally just Islamic laws. 86 Islam, in the latter view, is inherently just, and thus, shall Muslims perform the teachings properly, there should not be injustice. In 1937, the colonial government attempted to introduce a law promoting voluntary monogamous marriage to align with Western norms of family life. However, this proposal faced strong opposition from Islamic groups and was ultimately withdrawn. 87 Leaders of the women's movement also rejected the proposal as they deemed it potentially to exacerbate fragmentation within the women's movement and threaten the nationalist agenda. 86 Locher-Scholten, E. (2004). Marriage, Morality and Modernity: The 1937 Debate on Monogamy. In Women and the Colonial State: Essays on Gender and Modernity in the Netherlands Indies 1900–1942 (pp. 187–218). Amsterdam University Press. 87 For further discussion, see Locher-Scholten (2004). === [PDF page 69] === 69 Sujatin Kartowijono aptly notes in her lecture delivered on March 27, 1975, at the Kebangkitan Nasional building: At the 1935 Congress in Jakarta, the issues of monogamy and polygamy became topics of heated debate, leading to a gradual weakening of unity among women’s organizations. The Dutch colonial government, employing its divide et impera (divide and rule) tactic, appeared to exploit these tensions in 1937 by proposing an ordinance on monogamous marriage through a system of voluntary registration (voorwaardelijke onderwerping). The women’s movement firmly rejected this proposal, fearing that it would sow deeper divisions not only among the women's movement but also among the nationalist movement, which was resolutely struggling for independence. It makes clear that the Indonesian women’s movement was deeply intertwined with, and formed an essential part of, the broader nationalist struggle (Kartowijono, 1977, p.7).88 Although Maria Ulfah agreed with the principle of monogamy and non-coercion contained in the proposal, she advised that the Indonesian Women’s Congress refrain from taking an official stance on the issue, a bid to maintain unity (Rasid, 1982). Instead, the Congress decided to establish a Komite Perlindungan Kaum Perempuan dan Anak-Anak Indonesia (Committee for the Protection of Indonesian Women and Children, KPKPAI), which later served as the precursor to the Badan Penasehat Perkawinan, Perselisihan, dan Perceraian (BP4, Advisory Council on Marriage, Disputes, and Divorce), formed by the Ministry of Religious Affairs after Indonesia gained Similar to Sujatin, Maria Ulfah voiced her suspicion toward the drafting of the marriage ordinance: If the Dutch had truly acted in good faith, they could have simply enacted the ordinance without the need for any consultations. Is it not possible that the Dutch deliberately put forward this proposal for Indonesian women to decide upon, predicting that it would create divisions within the women’s and nationalist movement and thereby weaken the broader struggle for independence? (Rasid, 1982, p. 59). 88 Sujatin Kartomijono was a leading women activist during the colonial and revolutionary period. She was part of the youth organization Jong Java and established Putri Indonesia and the women’s organization Perwari. === [PDF page 70] === 70 The 1937 draft marriage ordinance addressed two key issues: interracial marriages between Europeans and Indonesians, which had interreligious implications, and the push for monogamy among Indonesians. However, Muslim opposition to intervention regarding marriage and the practice of polygamy largely overshadowed the draft’s racial aspects. 89 Under the existing regulation on marriage in 1896, European women who married Indonesian men were subject to Native law, exposing them to polygamy and repudiation. Many Dutch women, particularly those marrying Indonesian men educated in the Netherlands, were unaware of such consequences. Their growing visibility in the 1920s and 1930s led Dutch feminists, lawyers, and political figures to advocate for legal protections and push for reforms (Locher-Scholten, 2004). The marriage ordinance aimed to protect women by mandating monogamy, eliminating talak, and restricting divorce to court rulings.90 Concerns were raised about whether all Indonesians would accept the reforms, particularly from Jong Islamieten Bond, who argued that marriage should be reformed within Islam itself. Despite this initial support, strong opposition soon emerged. Islamic organizations, including Nahdlatul Ulama, fiercely rejected the draft, seeing it as an attack on Islamic principles, specifically concerning polygamy. 89 For a discussion on marriage, domestic arrangements, and racial and intimate governance in Dutch East Indies, see Stoler (2002). 90 It introduced a Western concept of gender equality, granting both men and women equal rights in marriage registration and divorce. However, while it upheld Indonesian women’s autonomy in property and inheritance under indigenous law, the ordinance primarily targeted elite, Western-educated Indonesian women rather than the rural population. The draft also sought to protect European women in interracial marriages from perceived Muslim abuses, but its broader goal was to assimilate the Indonesian elite into Western family norms, reinforcing colonial class divisions. By focusing on urban, educated elites, it created a distinct group of “modern monogamists,” further differentiating Indonesians along religious and class lines. Although race influenced the ordinance’s origins, these distinctions became more prominent as the debate unfolded. As Ann Stoler has shown, the 1896 law on interracial marriages reinforced the legal divide between Europeans and Natives; the 1937 draft similarly established a new identity in an in-between category of Indonesians aligned with Western marital norms. For a full discussion, see Locher-Scholten (2004). === [PDF page 71] === 71 Nahdlatul Ulama (NU) asserted that Islamic law is divine and should not be altered. They argued that polygamy served specific purposes, such as protecting widows and ensuring moral order, and that monogamy, as seen in Europe, led to illicit relationships and social decay. Protests spread across the nation, with local meetings, mosques, and journals decrying the government’s interference in religious matters. Mass mobilizations, petitions, and calls for withdrawal followed, uniting Islamic groups in defense of their marriage traditions (Locher-Scholten, 2004). Critics of the ordinance believed that it would violate the sanctity of Islamic law, particularly since the draft implied that secular regulations could override religious laws. Although some recognized issues with divorce and marriage practices in Islam, they believed these could be resolved through proper Islamic teachings without colonial interference. The debate revolved around broader issues of interference in religious matters beyond moral concerns and injustice. Critics of the marriage ordinance argued that the colonial state had no right to meddle in Islamic law, especially in private, intimate areas like family and marriage, which were core to Muslim identity. This resistance was intensified by recent colonial actions that reduced the authority of Islamic courts and by the rise of secular nationalism, which threatened Islam’s influence. The marriage ordinance became a rallying point for Islamic unity as Muslims faced challenges from colonialism, secular nationalism, and shifting power in the Middle East (Locher-Scholten, 2004). Nationalist-leaning women activists had nuanced responses to the 1937 draft of the marriage ordinance. Leaders such as Soewarni Pringgodigdo, Maria Ulfah Santoso, and Mrs. Mangoensarkoro advocated for the draft despite facing resistance from pro-polygamy groups such as PSII and ‘Aisyiyah. In response, they established the Committee for the Protection of === [PDF page 72] === 72 Indonesian Women and Children in September 1937, calling for a revised ordinance that upheld Islamic principles while promoting humanism and morality. Ultimately, the women’s movement prioritized unity over direct support for government-led marriage reforms, drawing lessons from past controversies (Locher-Scholten, 2004). Their response reflected the ongoing challenge of balancing feminist objectives with religious and nationalist concerns. Prioritizing stability and fearing unrest from the Muslim majority, especially amid growing Islamic militancy led by Nahdlatul Ulama (NU), the colonial government withdrew the draft in 1938. Islamic opposition, viewing the draft as an attack on Islam, organized the first All-Islam Congress in 1938, which called for marriage reforms that aligned with Islamic teachings. Meanwhile, leaders of the women’s movement also adjusted their approach. Soewarni Pringgodigdo and Maria Ulfah Santoso, for example, later came to advocate reforms that respected Islamic principles. At the Third Indonesian Women’s Congress in Bandung (July 23–27, 1938), Maria Ulfah, as head of KPKPAI, presented her working paper regarding marriage law. Referring to the already withdrawn marriage ordinance, she noted that much of the opposition centered on the clause prohibiting polygamy and on clauses that shifted the authority of talak to the court. For Maria Ulfah, however, the central problem was not the rejection of these clauses but the broader lack of public understanding of Islamic principles themselves. As she argued, a marriage law “must be brought into alignment with the Qur’an” (Vreede-de Stuers, 1960, p. 169). Variation in interpretations and gaps in Qur’anic literacy, to her, allowed patriarchal readings of Islamic teachings to dominate. === [PDF page 73] === 73 In her proposal, Maria Ulfah aimed to limit men’s universal authority in marriage, particularly concerning talak: (1) Before a husband pronounces talak, both husband and wife must appear before the penghulu (marriage officiant) at the Raad Agama (Religious Council, or later the religious court), which would investigate the grounds for divorce and attempt to reconcile the couple. Only if reconciliation proves impossible should the divorce proceed. She further argued that taklik talak should be permitted in cases of adultery, if the husband takes an additional wife without the wife’s consent, habitual drunkenness, imprisonment for two years or more, or when conflict cannot be resolved (Vreede-de Stuers, 1960). These clauses functioned, in effect, as legal mechanisms through which women could reclaim the power of exit in marriages otherwise marked by asymmetrical authority. Maria Ulfah also sought government support for several measures: “(1) The Raad Agama should have the authority to annul all talak that were not preceded by attempts at rujuk before a penghulu; (2) Penghulu must explain the meaning and implications of taklik; (3) The Raad Agama must order the husband to provide gono-gini (marital property or financial support) to the wife to sustain her and her children; (4) The Raad Agama must be allowed to seize the husband’s assets if he fails to fulfill his obligations” (Vreede-de Stuers, 1960, pp. 170–171). In addition, KPKPAI (later renamed the Badan Perlindungan Perempuan Indonesia dalam Perkawinan, BPPIP, Indonesian Women’s Protection Body in Marriage) was assigned to continue the work of the Consultation Bureau established by the Second Indonesian Women’s Congress and to collect materials for drafting a proposed marriage law for Muslims (Rasid, 1982). Ultimately, the goal of monogamy was set aside to preserve unity within the women’s movement. Although Muslim women activists and leaders acknowledged the need for marriage reform, they === [PDF page 74] === 74 insisted that any changes must come from within Islamic institutions rather than being imposed by the colonial state (Locher-Scholten, 2004). The controversy became less about women’s rights and equality or justice and more about resisting the colonial government’s interference in religious affairs. By 1939, the movement had employed a more pragmatic strategy to promote women’s rights within marriage and family by forming marriage consultation offices to educate brides about their rights and enforcing the taklik practice (Locher-Scholten, 2004). At the first KPKPAI conference in Yogyakarta (July 23–24, 1939), Maria Ulfah put forward a proposal regarding marriage law that countered an earlier draft she deemed failing to protect women. She particularly objected to the article on “wife’s obligations,” which included a clause stating that a wife may not leave the house without her husband’s permission. Maria Ulfah also emphasized the importance of taklik, as she had previously presented during the Third Indonesian Women’s Congress in 1938. With respect to rujuk (reconciliation), she insisted that women must never be forced to return to the marriage. Rujuk should occur only with the mutual consent of both parties. 91 The drafting of marriage law in the late colonial period reflected negotiations between nationalist women organizations, Islamic organizations, and the broader nationalist movement. Debates were not waged in terms of legal discussions but rather framed around morality and the understanding of women’s duty and position in family and society. Questions of monogamy, talak, taklik, and marital obligations became points of contention through which different groups sought to assert their visions of “proper” family, gender relations, and the imagined nation. It was through this interplay within these debates that marriage, family, and national identity were mutually 91 “Kedoedoekan Kaoem Perempoean Boemipoetera didalam Perkawinan” [Bumiputra Women’s Position in Marriage]. === [PDF page 75] === 75 constituted, forming a moral framework to govern intimacy and continuing to influence Indonesian legal and political discourse today. Toward the 1974 Marriage Law (late 1950s-early 1970s) The drafting of the marriage law in Indonesia was essentially an attempt to unify the diverse legal systems and parts of legal systems that regulate familial matters for Indonesia’s citizens. Yet, Indonesia’s pluralistic legal landscape often conflicted with the state’s attempts to impose a singular, standardized legal approach to family laws. Instead, religious institutions and local customs (adat) continued to shape how marriage, family roles, and gender relations were constituted.92 When examining the history of marriage in Indonesia, it is apparent that the requirement for state officiation was a relatively recent development. As previously discussed, before the enactment of the 1974 Marriage Law, marriage was predominantly governed by religion or adat. Prior to the 1950s, there had been several reforms regarding marriage, including one statutory reform put forward by the government (Katz & Katz, 1975). This statute, Law No. 22 of 1946, along with its extension through Law No. 32 of 1954 on the Registration of Marriage, Talak, and Rujuk, required Muslims to register their marriages, divorces (or repudiations), and reconciliations.93 However, registration was for administrative purposes only and did not 92 The plurality of customary law (hukum adat) highlights the variations in marriage and family norms across Indonesia, affecting women's experiences, including widowhood. 93 In Indonesia, a Muslim man may divorce his wife by merely saying “I divorce thee” three times (talak) regardless of the wife’s consent. If he says these words only once or twice, he then has three months (iddah period) within which he may reconcile with his wife by merely saying “I reconcile with thee.” === [PDF page 76] === 76 determine the validity of the marriage itself. 94 The requirement to register marriage, talak, and rujuk consequently expanded state surveillance of intimate life without providing stronger legal protections for women. In practice, men could still repudiate their wives at will in accordance with the dominant interpretation of Islam at that time, while women’s ability to assert rights or challenge marital decisions remained constrained. Between 1945 and 1973, numerous proposals to reform marriage law were drafted by government officials, women’s organizations, and the National Institute of Law Reform. 95 However, none were successfully enacted due to irreconcilable interests among conflicting groups. Muslim groups generally sought to maintain the status quo or limit changes to specific statutes, fearing that broader reforms could undermine religious authority. In contrast, Christian groups supported a more comprehensive legal framework. While not formally allied with Christian advocates, most women’s organizations, along with some liberal Muslims, also pushed for more radical and substantive reforms to marriage law. These competing interests ultimately prevented consensus and delayed meaningful legislative change. In the early 1950s, Perwari (Persatuan Wanita Republik Indonesia), a leading women’s organization, played a crucial role in advocating for marriage law reform. 96 Formed during the 94 The penalty for failing to register a marriage under Law No. 22 of 1946 was a small fine (Article 3). Subsequent regulations issued to implement this law granted marriage registrars advisory powers on matters such as forced child marriages, divorce, and polygamy. However, since these powers were only advisory and not legally binding, they had little impact on altering local customs (particularly Muslim marriage practices). Additional legal provisions, including Law No. 32 of 1954 and Ministry of Religion Instructions No. 4 of 1947 and Ministry of Religion Instructions No. 1 of 1955, further addressed marriage regulations but similarly lacked strong enforcement mechanisms. Muslims should register their marriage at the local Religious Affair Office (Kantor Urusan Agama, KUA) rather than at the Civil Registry Office (Kantor Catatan Sipil). 95 For details on these proposals, see Vreede-de Stuers (1960). 96 Formed during the first Kongres Wanita Indonesia in Klaten, December 17, 1945, Perwari (Persatuan Wanita Republik Indonesia) was a merger between Wanita Negara Indonesia (WANI) and Persatuan Wanita Indonesia (PERWANI), led by Mrs. Sri Mangunsarkoro. The Council of Kongres Wanita Indonesia (Kowani) was a federation of several women’s organizations formed during the women’s conference in Solo, February 24–26, === [PDF page 77] === 77 revolutionary period, Perwari initially focused on supporting the struggle for independence. 97 As the political space for social reform widened after independence, however, Perwari and other women’s organizations began to focus on advocacy for legal protections for women in marriage (Vreede-de Stuers, 1960). Their primary demand was the enactment of a comprehensive Marriage Law that would safeguard women’s rights, particularly by restricting polygamy. 98 One of Perwari’s primary concerns was Government Regulation No. 19 of 1952. This regulation stipulated that second and subsequent wives were eligible to receive a widow’s pension when a civil servant died. A civil servant could designate one or more wives as beneficiaries. If there were more than one wife, each would receive an equal part of the basic pension allocated to a widow. At the time this Government Regulation was issued, however, the Armed Forces had already implemented a rule prohibiting members from taking a second wife without the permission of their commander (Kartowijono, 1977). The issuance of Government Regulation No. 19 of 1952 implicitly signaled that the government not only recognized a civil servant’s right to take a second wife but also appeared, in effect, to encourage civil servants to have more than one wife (Rasid, 1982; Vreede-de Stuers, 1960). This regulation resulted in increased government expenditures, funded through mandatory salary deductions from civil servants for their pensions. The Indonesian Women’s Congress held in Bandung in November 1952 rejected this government regulation. Among the organizations opposing it were Perwari, Gerakan Wanita Indonesia (Gerwani), and Persatuan Istri Prajurit (Persit). In response, Perwari launched a campaign for the government to 1946. Perwari was one of the first members of Kowani along with Pemuda-Putri Indonesia (PPI), Persatuan Wanita Kristen Indonesia (PWKI), and Bagian Wanita Partai Katholik Republik Indonesia (PKRI) (Kowani, 1978). 97 The revolutionary period refers to the late 1940s when the struggle for independence was waged. 98 As Gadis Rasid (1982) notes, after independence Perwari had replaced the role of Isteri Sedar, which was strongly against polygamy during the revolutionary period. === [PDF page 78] === 78 revoke the regulation and to pursue legal reforms toward a unification of marriage law. Part of the campaign, most notably, was a major protest on December 17, 1953, during the day of Perwari’s eighth-anniversary celebration (Kartowijono, 1977; Vreede-de Stuers, 1960). Despite these efforts, the regulation remained in force, and discussions regarding a unified marriage law stalled. Another source of alarm for women’s organizations was then President Soekarno’s 1954 marriage to Hartini Soewondo without Fatmawati’s consent, leading the First Lady to file for divorce and leave. This incident prompted women’s organizations to press for the swift enactment of a marriage law and a protocol law requiring that any marriage entered into by the President or Vice President while in office must first receive cabinet and parliamentary approval (Amini, 2021). Throughout the 1950s and 1960s, marriage and family life were increasingly politicized. At the 1952 Kongres Perempuan Indonesia, the issue of women’s position in marriage was discussed. After the government formed the Department of Religion (later, the Ministry of Religious Affairs) on January 3, 1946, it became a starting point for institutional reform regarding marriage in the following years. In 1950, the Department of Religion formed Panitia Penyelidik Peraturan Hukum Nikah, Rujuk, Talak (NTR), tasked with investigating issues regarding marriage law. In October 1952, the NTR Commission submitted a draft marriage law, accompanied by a list of questions addressed to women’s organizations and activists for consultation. Among those who expressed support for the draft were Perwari, Bhayangkari, and Persit. 99 These three organizations argued that the formulation of marriage law should be made in line with the United Nations Declaration of Human Rights (already signed by the government and incorporated into the Constitution), particularly Article 16: (1) Men and women of full age, without any limitation due 99 Bhayangkari and Persit are women’s organizations for the wives of Armed Forces members. === [PDF page 79] === 79 to race, nationality or religion, have the right to marry and to found a family. They are entitled to equal rights as to marriage, during marriage, and at its dissolution; (2) Marriage shall be entered into only with the free and full consent of the intending spouses; (3) The family is the natural and fundamental group unit of society and is entitled to protection by society and the State [emphasis added].100 Opposition emerged among conservative Muslim organizations, arguing that the draft lacked clarity and failed to align with Islamic principles, while Catholic groups objected to provisions permitting polygamy and divorce. Due to criticism, the draft was then revised and resubmitted in 1954 and 1955 to the Ministry of Religious Affairs. It took a year before the Ministry submitted the draft to Parliament. In March 1958, Parliament agreed to discuss the draft (Amini, 2021; Vreede-de Stuers, 1960). The dividing line between Islamic and secular-leaning women’s organizations echoed previous debates regarding marriage law since the colonial period. As with the debates surrounding marriage law in the 1920s–1930s, the issues concerned not only women’s positions within marriage and the family but also national identity, the boundary between state and family, and the competing authorities that sought to govern family life and intimate relations. While the issue concerning polygamy remained unresolved, the second half of the 1950s also witnessed a reform long advocated by women activists. In 1955, the Ministry of Religion finally standardized the formulation and conditions of taklik talak, printing them on the back of official marriage documents. According to the official taklik talak, if the husband agrees, his wife may initiate divorce proceedings on four grounds: if he abandons her for six consecutive months, fails to provide proper financial support for three consecutive months, physically mistreats her, or 100 United Nations. (1948). Universal Declaration of Human Rights. https://www.un.org/en/about-us/universaldeclaration-of-human-rights. === [PDF page 80] === 80 neglects her for six consecutive months.101 However, it depends on three key factors: the bride’s awareness and willingness to invoke it, the groom’s consent, and the cooperation of the presiding marriage officiant. Because these conditions are not always met, taklik talak has not provided the level of formal protection that many Indonesian women and activists had hoped for. 102 Thus, the need for a unified marriage law for Muslims remained pressing. After the violent shift of power in 1965, efforts to draft a marriage law regained traction. 103 In the late 1960s, Perwari took decisive action to address the long-stalled Marriage Bill. One of the causes for Perwari’s renewed urgency was a highly publicized “subversive trial” (pengadilan subversi) of former Central Bank Minister Jusuf Muda Dalam in August 1966. 104 Charges of corruption, embezzlement, and moral misconduct were frequently mobilized not only to prosecute wrongdoing but also to strip political figures of legitimacy in the eyes of the public. Jusuf Muda Dalam was not only accused of embezzlement and arms trafficking but also of contracting a marriage that violated Islamic legal norms. 105 This last charge was not incidental. By framing his alleged misconduct as a breach of religiously sanctioned morality, prosecutors reinforced the idea that rendered his acts not only unlawful but also immoral and sinful, thus making him unfit to participate in national leadership. Accusations involving marriage carried particular weight because they touched the very core of what the state was beginning to construct as the moral 101 Decree of Minister of Religion No. 15 of 1955. See also “Untuk Siapa Kalau Bukan untuk Wanita,” Tempo, June 30, 1973, p. 44. 103 The early 1960s marked a turbulent period characterized by the violent transfer of power from Soekarno’s socalled Old Order to Suharto’s New Order, which falls outside the scope of this dissertation. 104 “Perwari membitjarakan RUU Perkawinan dan Pemilu,” Kompas, September 19, 1966. 105 The court transcript of Jusuf Muda Dalam’s trials was published in a book issued by the Attorney General’s Office (Kejaksaan Agung), see The Attorney General’s Office of the Republic of Indonesia, (1967). 102 === [PDF page 81] === 81 foundation of the new republic: the family. A political figure accused of violating marriage norms was thus perceived as a threat to the moral order of the nation. The case of Jusuf Muda Dalam became a catalyst for women activists to demand a marriage law grounded in monogamous principles. It drew national attention to the fragility of Indonesia’s moral order and underscored the urgency of reforming marriage regulations. In this political climate, leaders of Perwari emphasized the need for legal protections that would safeguard family life and uphold moral values, framing the Marriage Bill as a response to growing anxieties about moral decline and violations of religious norms. At the same time, Perwari connected the Marriage Bill to broader political debates, advocating for its discussion alongside the Election Bill. 106 Another women’s organization, Wanita Persahi, also urged the government to promptly submit several critical bills to the DPRGR. The organization emphasized the urgent need for legal protections in these areas and called for immediate legislative action to safeguard the rights and welfare of vulnerable groups in Indonesian society.107 Perwari’s Central Leadership strongly pressed then-President Suharto to expedite the submission of the long-delayed Marriage Bill to the DPRGR.108 Both Perwari and Wanita Persahi stressed the urgency of prioritizing family welfare, citing the “prolonged hardships” faced by women. Despite a lack of progress in forming a unified marriage law, advocacy for stronger legal protections for women had influenced important judicial reforms, particularly in the Supreme Court’s interpretation of adat law that strengthened the rights of widows in both bilateral and patrilineal inheritance systems. These legal developments established: “(1) A widow’s right to 106 “Perwari membitjarakan RUU Perkawinan dan Pemilu,” Kompas, September 19, 1966. “Desakan Wanita Persahi kpd DPR & Pemerintah,” Kompas, December 5, 1966, p. 1. 108 “RUU Perkawinan Spj Lekas Diselesaikan,” Kompas, April 22, 1967, p. 1. 107 === [PDF page 82] === 82 receive adequate financial support from both her husband’s separately owned property and his share of community property; (2) Her entitlement to a portion of both types of property, regardless of whether she receives sufficient financial support; (3) Her full right to inherit an equal share of both types of property, alongside her children” (Lev, 1962). Similar progress had been made in the application of Dutch civil law, which remained in effect for European and Chinese communities. In 1963, for example, the Supreme Court invalidated Articles 108 and 110 of the Civil Code, granting all Indonesian women equal legal capacity to enter contracts and appear in court, reflecting a broader movement toward unifying marriage laws across racial groups. 109 In 1968, the Court further expanded marriage regulation by allowing Indonesians subject to the Civil Code to obtain a divorce on the grounds of irreconcilable incompatibility, which had previously been available only for Christian marriages (Katz & Katz, 1978). These reforms represented significant progress, particularly for Muslim women. However, they fell short of meeting the demands of Indonesian women’s organizations, which continued to push for a unified marriage law that would provide comprehensive and consistent legal protection for all women. By the late 1960s, debates on marriage law reform gained renewed momentum. A draft of the marriage law was brought to the House of Representatives (Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat Gotong Royong, DPRGR) and reinvigorated public debate on the issue of marriage. 110 This draft sought to grant legal recognition to all marriages, whether religious or secular. For those who did not wish to marry under religious law but sought legal recognition, the draft provided a non-religious marriage option. The proposed law treated all marriages as equal, allowing citizens to choose their 109 Circular Letter of the Supreme Court No. 3, September 5, 1963. Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat Gotong Royong or DPRGR (1967–1971) was the People’s Representative Council of the Republic of Indonesia comprised of members appointed under Law No. 10 of 1966. 110 === [PDF page 83] === 83 preferred form. This neutrality aligned with the 1945 Constitution, emphasizing a state based on divinity rather than specific religious doctrines. The Civil Registration Office would officially document all marriages.111 As cited from a news report published by Kompas: All marriages, divorces, and dissolutions carried out according to the marriage regulations of each religion are recognized by the government and granted legal status. To accommodate Indonesian citizens who do not wish to marry according to the rules of any recognized religion but still want their marriage to have legal standing, a form of marriage regulation was devised that is not based on religion but on the principle of Ketuhanan … these various forms of marriage are equal; none is superior or more common than the others. For the government, none of these marriage regulations is privileged over the rest [emphasis added]. By recognizing these different forms of marriage, the government provides citizens with autonomy. This position of neutrality is appropriate because the state must stand on the principle of Ketuhanan rather than on any particular religion, in accordance with Article 29 of the 1945 Constitution. The Civil Registry Office records all official marriages (as well as divorces and dissolutions). Given this arrangement, it may seem difficult to understand why a simple and widely acceptable concept of marriage could not be quickly formulated. Yet in reality, marriage is an extremely complex matter because it contains two facets: the profane and the sacred [emphasis added]. What is profane falls under the competence of the State or Government, while what is sacred falls under the competence of Religion. Distinguishing between the profane and the sacred is not always easy … These difficulties are compounded by the fact that we live in a state that recognizes multiple religions and that we have only recently lived as an independent nation-state based on Pancasila. Our social interactions and our society have not yet fully reflected the pure spirit of Pancasila. All these factors contribute to the complexity faced by those tasked with drafting a Marriage Law that could be applied to all Indonesian citizens.112 There is a clear parallel between the drafting of marriage law and the formation of national identity. Both processes raised the same core question: How can a moral framework be created in a country grounded in Ketuhanan while also accommodating religious and cultural diversity? Indonesia did not adopt a secularism that strictly separates religion and state. Instead, it developed a form of religious secularism, where the state still draws on religious and adat moral principles. 111 112 “RUU Perkawinan di DPRGR,” Kompas, May 1967, p. 3. Ibid. === [PDF page 84] === 84 As the state expanded, matters that usually fall under the authority of religions or adat, such as marriage, became a locus where the sacred and the profane overlap. While the state upholds the sanctity of marriage, it must also govern its citizens through documentation, legal status, property rights, inheritance, and other civil matters. Moreover, since the Constitution requires equality, the state must recognize all marriages as legally equal and must not privilege one religion over another. The challenge within such debates is to tease out which matters are sacred and hence fall under religious or adat authorities, from those that are profane and should fall under the state’s authority.113 The difficulty of this task was further compounded by competing interests, as a single unified marriage law must accommodate multiple religious traditions, different interpretations within a single religion, customary norms (adat) that vary regionally, and even the needs of those who did not wish to marry under a religious framework yet still needed legal recognition as citizens. The 1968 plenary sessions of the DPRGR on the two proposed drafts concerning marriage, namely the draft of Laws on Marriage Provisions and Islamic Marriage Principles, revealed deep divisions among political factions, particularly regarding polygamy. 114 The inclusion of the phrase 113 Notably, the Vatican recognized the 1967 draft as a suitable compromise for Catholics and a potential model for other countries facing similar dilemmas of legal plurality. 114 “Poligami ramai dibicarakan di DPRGR,” Kompas, October 27, 1968, pp. 1, 3. The recent DPRGR debates on the Drafts of Laws on Marriage Provisions and Islamic Marriage Principles revealed significant divisions, especially on polygamy. Key speakers, including representatives from PNI, Karya Pembangunan, Partai Muslimin, Parkindo, Murba, the Catholic faction, ABRI, PSII, NU, and IPKI, offered diverse views. Ny. Lasmindar (Karya Pembangunan) advocated that polygamy should require the first wife’s consent and allow her the right to divorce, indicating a lean toward monogamy. However, recognizing polygamy as fundamental in Islamic law, many agreed on the need for strict regulation to prevent abuse. V.B. Da Costa (Catholic faction) opposed both drafts, citing contradictions with the Constitution and Pancasila, and criticized the exclusion of non-religious citizens from legal marriage. Representatives from PSII and NU argued that marriage laws should be religion-specific, rejecting the draft’s monogamy emphasis as unjust. The debate also touched on mixed marriages, with calls for preserving individual religious rights. Drs. Sjafruddin Tan Pono (ABRI) highlighted marriage’s dual nature—both sacred and contractual—arguing for simplicity in the law. Moh. Kasim (IPKI) supported the drafts but called for clearer rules === [PDF page 85] === 85 “the husband’s loyalty to his wife” in the draft was interpreted as a move toward monogamy. While there was broad support for stricter polygamy regulations, representatives also emphasized that polygamy is a practice afforded in Islam and thus could not be dismissed. They warned that while polygamy is not inherently harmful, if misused, it can lead to “women suffering.” Representatives from the Karya Pembangunan party, for example, proposed that polygamy should only be allowed with the consent of the first wife and that she should have the right to seek divorce. The Catholic faction outright rejected both drafts of law, arguing that they contradicted the Constitution and Pancasila. The representative, V.B. Da Costa, criticized the Draft for discriminating against nonreligious individuals by denying them recognition and legal marriage. He further warned that the draft laws could move Indonesia toward a state governed by religious principles (particularly Islam) rather than Pancasila. Representatives from PSII and NU opposed the drafts on the grounds that marriage should be governed independently by each religion. In particular, they contended that the endorsement of monogamy was unfair and incompatible with Islam, which allows polygamy. Mochtar Rasjid (NU) argued that the focus on polygamy was misplaced and insisted that since the nation adheres to Pancasila as a tenet and believes in God Almighty (Ketuhanan Yang Maha Esa), marriage should be governed by religion and solely fall under the jurisdiction of the Ministry of Religious Affairs. 115 The discussions highlighted concerns over contending authorities over family and intimate life, legal equality, and the risk of discrimination if separate marriage laws were implemented for different religious groups. The government maintains that existing regulations on polygamy sufficiently protect women. It was also argued that religiously on temporary marriages. Overall, the discussions underscored the challenges of crafting a marriage law that respects Indonesia’s religious diversity while adhering to constitutional and Pancasila principles. 115 Ibid. === [PDF page 86] === 86 based marriage laws are necessary precisely because Indonesia is grounded in Pancasila, whose first principle affirms belief in God Almighty. Given that people are generally more compliant with laws enforced by the state, the government sees legal intervention in religious matters as essential to maintaining order. The marriage law debates also reveal fundamental tensions between religious and secular perspectives, between universal and particular legal frameworks, and between state, custom (adat), and religious authorities. The DPRGR plenary session centered on the relationship between marriage law, religion, and the Constitution. The Minister of Justice defended the draft against criticism that it contradicts the Constitution and Pancasila, asserting that Pancasila establishes religion as a fundamental aspect of national life. Since marriage in Indonesia is closely tied to religious principles, the government considers it necessary to create laws that accommodate the religious beliefs of different communities. Addressing concerns about legal equality, the Minister of Justice emphasized that while the law should apply equally to all citizens, it must also recognize fundamental differences in religion. The Minister argued that the principle of “equality before the law” must be applied practically, ensuring that marriage laws are accessible to both religious and non-religious individuals. The Minister of Religious Affairs defended the draft’s provisions on polygamy, arguing that they sufficiently address concerns about women’s emancipation. He reiterated that religious communities tend to comply with regulations when they are enforced by the state, making government intervention in religious matters necessary. Responding to the Catholic faction’s claim that the draft contradicts Pancasila and the Constitution, the Minister rejected this argument, stating that the first principle of Pancasila affirms Indonesia as a religious state. He further asserted that the Draft Law aligns with the preferences of religious communities === [PDF page 87] === 87 and has their support. 116 The government’s response reaffirmed its position that marriage laws should reflect Indonesia’s religious diversity while maintaining constitutional and ideological alignment with Pancasila. It justified separate marriage regulations for religious groups, defended polygamy as sufficiently regulated, and argued that state intervention in religious matters is necessary to ensure compliance. The government initially leaned toward favoring separate marriage laws for different religious and social groups (particularly for Muslims) rather than implementing a unified national marriage law. This approach was evident in the debate over the Draft Law on the Provisions of Marriage, where the government opposed the Karya Pembangunan Faction’s proposal for a unified national regulation. During the plenary session, Minister of Justice Umar Senoadji clarified that having specific laws for different groups does not contradict Article 27 of the Constitution on legal equality, as specialized laws serve as extensions rather than contradictions of general laws. The government maintained that religious groups should have their own marriage regulations, as marriage involves personal, legal, and religious considerations. These regulations, according to the government, align with Pancasila, which integrates religious values into national governance. Indeed, addressing concerns from critics like V.B. Da Costa, the government asserted that marriage laws for religious groups are not separate legal frameworks but rather extensions of Pancasila’s principles. The debate also extended to the Draft Law on Islamic Marriage Provisions, where the Minister of Religious Affairs emphasized that while Article 29 of the Constitution guarantees religious freedom, it does not mean establishing a state based on a particular religion. He further argued that the preferences of the Muslim majority should be respected rather than compromised, 116 “Pandangan Menteri Agama tentang UU Perkawinan,” Kompas, October 31, 1968, p. 1. === [PDF page 88] === 88 rejecting calls for a universal marriage law as proposed by the Karya Pembangunan Faction.117 The government seemingly struggled to balance religious diversity with national cohesion while maintaining constitutional principles. By 1970, during a meeting with the Central Leadership of Perwari, President Suharto pledged his commitment to addressing the long-delayed Marriage Bill, which had remained stalled in Parliament for years. Perwari’s leadership expressed deep concern over the prolonged inaction and urged the President to prioritize its enactment. In addition to advocating for the marriage law, Perwari also emphasized the need to expedite the Draft Law on Islamic Marriage, which had similarly been delayed. They proposed that both drafts be consolidated during parliamentary discussions to create a more cohesive legal framework for marriage in Indonesia. Their efforts highlighted Perwari’s dedication to advancing women’s rights and ensuring that marriage laws reflect the diverse needs of Indonesian society while upholding justice and equality. Moreover, the President’s willingness to focus on these legislative matters marked a significant step toward breaking the impasse and strengthening legal protections surrounding marriage in the country.118 Nonetheless, discussions in the DPRGR on the two Marriage Bills were marked by significant disagreements, particularly among religious factions. Islamic factions largely supported the government’s proposal to establish two separate Marriage Laws: one outlining Basic Provisions of Marriage and another addressing marriage regulations for Islam, Christianity, Catholicism, and Hinduism. In contrast, Christian and Catholic factions strongly opposed this approach, arguing that it undermined the goal of a unified national legal system and should instead 117 “Menteri Kehakiman Prof. Umar Senoadji: UU Perkawinan Jang Pokok dan Chusus Tidak Saling Bertentangan,” Kompas, December 5, 1968, p. 1. 118 “Perwari minta RUU Pokok Perkawinan digabungkan dengan RUU Pernikahan Islam,” Kompas, August 10, 1970. === [PDF page 89] === 89 be replaced by a single, universally applicable Marriage Law. This deadlock stalled legislative progress yet again. Islamic factions justified their stance by emphasizing Indonesia’s diverse religious landscape, where each faith has distinct marriage practices. Meanwhile, Christian and Catholic factions worried that allowing multiple Marriage Laws could set a precedent for other legal areas, particularly inheritance and criminal law, potentially leading to a fragmented legal system. Further complicating the debate was the position of non-religious factions, which remained divided. Some members supported the Islamic factions’ argument for religious-based legal distinctions, while others aligned with the Christian and Catholic factions’ push for a unified Marriage Law. However, many non-religious lawmakers avoided engaging deeply in the religious aspects of the debate, adding to the difficulty of reaching a consensus. A distinct perspective came from female members of the DPRGR, who emphasized the need for stronger legal protections for women, particularly regarding divorce and polygamy. Their urgency stemmed from concerns that existing marriage laws failed to safeguard women’s rights adequately, making the swift enactment of a Marriage Law a priority for equality. Despite the impasse, all factions agreed on the necessity of enacting a Marriage Law. One possible proposed compromise involved drafting a single, nationally applicable Marriage Law while allowing specific religious practices to be regulated separately through organic regulations rather than distinct laws. This approach would maintain legal unity while respecting religious diversity and ensuring adequate protections for women. 119 Throughout the debates, the challenge remained about the competing authorities between the state, religion, and women themselves when it comes to marriage, while ensuring that no group’s rights 119 “Parlementaria: latar belakang matjetnja RUU perkawinan di DPR,” Kompas, September 30, 1970, p. 4. === [PDF page 90] === 90 are compromised, while upholding a unified legal framework that reflects Indonesia’s diverse society. The extensive discussions provoked significant disagreements between the government and the DPRGR on core aspects of the proposed laws. Due to the lack of consensus, however, the matter was referred back to the DPRGR Deliberation Committee for further review.120 The Marriage Bill then stalled until the sudden emergence of the next draft proposal in 1973. On July 31, 1973, the government submitted a new Marriage Bill to the House of Representatives, aiming to unify Indonesia’s marriage laws. Questions arose about the bill’s origins, as it became clear that the Ministry of Religion and Islamic leaders had not been involved in its drafting. 121 This exclusion led to significant tensions, particularly among Muslim groups who felt sidelined in the legislative process. Beyond procedural concerns, many Muslim leaders strongly objected to specific provisions in the bill, arguing that they contradicted Islamic teachings. As a result, heated debates erupted both inside and outside the House of Representatives. The bill’s general debate saw the highest parliamentary attendance in Indonesian history. Among the four parliamentary factions, the Armed Forces Faction (ABRI), Golkar, and the Indonesian Democratic Party expressed support for the bill, at least in principle. However, Fraksi Persatuan firmly opposed it, 122 reflecting the existing deep divisions over the proposed reforms. 120 “Kedua RUU Perkawinan dikembalikan kepanitya Musjawarah DPRGR,” Kompas, November 5, 1970, p. 12. According to Tempo, there were suspicions that the proposed Marriage Bill was drafted under the influence of Catholic members within Golkar, the ruling political party. Additionally, it was speculated that Tien Suharto, the wife of President Suharto, played a key role in pushing for the bill’s introduction, see, “RUU Perkawinan, Aksi dan Reaksi,” Tempo, September 8, 1973, pp. 6–8). 122 The Fraksi Persatuan comprises four former Muslim parties; the Democratic Party consists of the former Nationalist Party, Protestant Party, and Catholic Party. 121 === [PDF page 91] === 91 Despite strong objections from Muslim groups, Fraksi Persatuan, which opposed the 1973 Marriage Bill, would have lost if the bill had been put to a vote. However, a vote never took place because of Fraksi Persatuan’s threat to walk out and intense pressure from the Muslim community.123 Recognizing that passing the bill without amendments could destabilize the country, the government decided to negotiate a compromise. 124 To ease tensions, President Suharto agreed to remove all provisions deemed contrary to Islamic law. The Armed Forces Faction (ABRI), likely under the president’s direction, reached a “consensus” with Fraksi Persatuan, 125 resulting in five key provisions: (1) Islamic marriage law would remain unchanged; (2) the role of Islamic courts would not be diminished; (3) all provisions conflicting with Islamic law would be removed; (4) marriage registration would not be required for a marriage to be valid (religious law alone would suffice); and (5) measures would be introduced to prevent arbitrary divorce and polygamy. Initially, Golkar and the Democratic Party opposed this agreement, but a ten-member working committee, representing all factions, revised the bill to reflect the compromise. Eventually, they secured unanimous approval, leading to the bill’s passage by the House of Representatives on December 22, 1973, and its enactment by President Suharto on January 2, 1974.126 The original Marriage Bill contained 73 articles, while the revised 1974 Marriage Law had only 67. Any provisions that were considered contrary to Islamic law were removed, amended, or 123 These demonstrations, including a temporary seizure of the floor of the House of Representatives, undoubtedly provided the government with an uncomfortable threat. 124 See “Bukan Harga Mati,” Tempo, October 20, 1973, p. 6. 125 It resulted in the deletion of provisions contrary to the Islamic religion, especially in light of subsequent events. See “Hasil Pembedahan,” Tempo, December 8, 1973, p. 9. As reported in “Masih Pasal 1,”Tempo, December 22, 1973, pp. 9–10. 126 How the working committee, consisting of representatives from all factions, was able to reach a sudden agreement remains unclear to outsiders. See also “Dan Lahirlah UU Itu—Dengan Afdruk Kilat,” Tempo, December 29, 1973, pp. 5–8. === [PDF page 92] === 92 deferred to future implementing regulations. The final 1974 Marriage Law represented a major concession to Islamic interests, reflecting the political influence of Muslim groups and their ability to mobilize against policies perceived as conflicting with religious principles. The compromises ensured that marriage laws aligned with religious traditions while still incorporating some government oversight, particularly in matters of divorce and polygamy. Ultimately, the law balanced the government’s aim of legal uniformity with the necessity of accommodating the interests of the dominant group. This convergence of legal, moral, and political regulation is part of the broader context leading to the 1974 Marriage Law. By the late 1960s and early 1970s, there was mounting pressure to unify Indonesia’s fragmented marriage regulations and to codify the “proper” form of marriage that would serve as the moral infrastructure of the nation. The legal vulnerability of women under adat and Islamic law, combined with the political use of moral accusations to discipline elites, created a climate where the state sought to standardize marriage as a means of producing a disciplined citizenry and consolidating its authority. By defining what entails a marriage within this Law, the state institutionalize a particular moral order, embedding heteronormative family structures as the cornerstone of Indonesian citizenship. Marriage After 1974 (late 1970s–1990s) After the 1970s, the government became increasingly invested in determining who was or was not “fit” to marry and who should or should not be allowed to divorce (except for nonheterosexual relationships, which were entirely left out of the discussion since it was perceived as a given that marriage should happen only between opposite sexes/genders). Marriage Law renders === [PDF page 93] === 93 legible a particular kind of intimacy for state recognition, defines what counts as a legitimate marriage, specifies who can marry whom, and how. The law prohibits marriage between more than two persons, between consanguineous relations, between parties where one (or both) of the participants is below the age of consent, and interfaith marriage. It not only prescribes rigid gender roles but also disciplines sexual desires, privileging the heterosexual nuclear family model. Religious institutions (including the church) could still decide which marriages were “licit” and which divorces they would recognize, but the state increasingly took over these matters as part of its administrative and legal jurisdictions. At the same time, there has been an increase in policies that benefit only legal marriage and heterosexual monogamous families, such as those related to pensions for civil servants and military members, health care benefits, and social protections for widows and orphans. As defined in Law No. 1 of 1974 on Marriage, marriage is “a relationship of body and soul between a man and a woman as husband and wife with the purpose of establishing a happy and lasting family or household founded on the belief in God Almighty” (Article 1). A marriage is legitimate if it is performed according to the laws of the respective religions of the parties involved. Every marriage shall be registered according to the regulations of the legislation in force (Article 2). In principle, in a marriage, a man is allowed to have one wife only. A woman is allowed to have one husband only. However, a court of law may grant permission to a husband to have more than one wife if all parties concerned so wish (Article 3). If a husband desires to have more than one wife, as referred to in Article 3, paragraph (2) of this Law, he is required to submit a request to the Court of Law in the region in which he resides. The Court of Law referred to in paragraph (1) of this article may grant permission to a husband wishing to have more than one wife if: (a) his === [PDF page 94] === 94 wife is unable to perform her duties as a wife; (b) his wife suffers from disabilities or an incurable disease; or (c) his wife is incapable of having children (Article 4). 127 In short, a marriage, according to the state, must be between a man and a woman, performed according to the relevant laws and religions, registered, and adhered to monogamous principles (although polygyny is recognized and permitted under specific circumstances in accordance with Islamic laws). This legal framework shows the state’s alignment with religious norms with regard to marriage while also enabling judicial mechanisms to impose its structure and practices. 128 The law marks a significant legal milestone, particularly for the women’s movement, which had long advocated for legal protection for women within marriage. However, the law’s impact was contingent upon the subsequent implementation process, which raised significant challenges and uncertainties. On April 1, 1975, the government issued Marriage Law Implementing Regulations, which came into effect on October 1, 1975. 129 This development appeared to signal a shift from the previous pattern of vague or unenforced legal frameworks. However, in reality, the problem of “law without law” persisted, as these regulations failed to address several crucial aspects of the Marriage Law. Additionally, the legal and institutional infrastructure required for full implementation remained severely inadequate. One of the most pressing unresolved issues was the definition of “belief” (kepercayaan) in the new law.130 Shortly after the law’s passage, an editorial in a newspaper warned that ambiguity over this term could lead to confusion, stressing the need for clear regulations. 131 The government, however, did not 127 Law No. 1 of 1974 on Marriage, Articles 1, 2, 3, and 4. The Statistics Indonesia (Badan Pusat Statistik, BPS) adheres to this definition of marriage in its official survey and reporting. 129 Government Regulation No. 9 of 1975. 130 “Hakekat RUU Perkawinan,” Kompas, December 22, 1973, p. 4. 131 Ibid. Another extremely crucial and unclear issue ignored by the implementing regulations is mixed marriage. 128 === [PDF page 95] === 95 provide a definitive explanation, leaving room for legal uncertainty. Despite the move toward standardization, the law left uncertainties regarding the classification of religions and beliefs. The elucidation (penjelasan) of the law states that “there is no marriage outside of the laws of the respective religions and beliefs.”132 This phrase clearly includes Indonesia’s six state-recognized religions: Islam, Catholicism, Protestantism, Hinduism, Buddhism, and Confucianism. However, it remains unclear whether non-official religious beliefs, such as kebatinan (Indonesian mystical traditions), fall under this category. This legal ambiguity affects a significant minority of Indonesians who are Muslims in name only but adhere to mystical traditions not formally recognized by the state. 133 Although these beliefs are often acknowledged in informal settings, they lack official legal recognition. 134 Moreover, the implementation regulations were highly optimistic in assuming that existing institutions could handle the increased workload. A major concern was the capacity of the Islamic courts, which, based on current case statistics, were expected to process around 25,000 cases annually. 135 The new legal framework would require them to manage approximately sixteen times that number, 136 raising doubts about their ability to cope with the demand. While European, Chinese, and Christian communities had long operated under codified marriage laws, Muslim Indonesians relied on interpretations of Islamic teachings from the Prophet and early Islamic scholars. These interpretations, however, often lacked clarity on substantive 132 Elucidation, Article 2. See “Bagaimana Aidit Kawin?” Tempo, January 5, 1974, p. 6. See also “Anda Ats-Tsauroh?” Tempo, November 24, 1973, p. 7. 134 In theory, this ambiguity could also impact atheists, but in practical terms, this is negligible, as officially registered atheists are virtually nonexistent in Indonesia today. One reason for this is that the people fear that atheism will be associated with communism. Note especially that the first provision of Pancasila is “the belief in one God” and that Article 1 of the new marriage law states that marriage is “based on the one God.” 135 See “Terutama untuk Wanita,” Tempo, May 3, 1975, p. 13. 136 Ibid. 133 === [PDF page 96] === 96 matters of marriage. Given that the majority of Indonesia’s population is at least nominally Muslim, the codification of marriage law marked a turning point: it represented a major legal advancement that brought Islamic family law under the authority of the state. By clearly outlining key aspects of marriage, divorce, and spousal rights and responsibilities, the 1974 Marriage Law was expected to standardize Islamic court rulings and provide Indonesian Muslims with a more coherent understanding of their legal rights.137 In addition, the incorporation of Islamic principles into state law meant that their authority no longer depended on recognition within adat (customary law). Instead, they had become an official part of the state’s legal system. A key feature of the 1974 Marriage Law was its unification of the legal framework for all Indonesians, transcending ethnic and customary (adat) affiliations. Many regarded this as a crucial step toward fostering national unity across Indonesia’s diverse (and often conflicting) regional identities. For the first time, provisions such as the minimum age of marriage, marriage agreements, spousal rights and duties, and divorce regulations were standardized across religious communities. Yet, the project of full unification was only partially realized. Significant differences persisted, most notably in the regulation of polygamy, which continued to vary by religion. 138 Whereas the earlier system had divided marriage laws along lines of adat and ethnicity, the new framework reorganized these distinctions around religious affiliation. Confusion over overlapping authorities in matters of marriage became especially visible in the early period following the enactment of the Marriage Law. A notable example is the 1983 case of Laila Hajaze, who eloped through merari under Sasak custom but was later forced by her father 137 See “Pengadilan Agama Dalam Kritik,” Tempo, August 18, 1973, p. 42. Polygamy and other areas in which different religious groups are treated differently (like the requirement of consent of the parties before marriage and the division of joint property after divorce) will be discussed below in subsections d(i), (iii), and (v). 138 === [PDF page 97] === 97 into another marriage. The case exposed deep tensions among customary (adat), Islamic, and state authorities. Adat leaders, Islamic scholars, and the Religious Court all became involved to weigh in on how to resolve the situation; however, the court ultimately annulled the forced marriage. 139 This case demonstrated that under the new Marriage Law, the state, through the court, emerged as the final arbiter in intimate and moral disputes, overriding both customary practice and familial authority. The 1974 Marriage Law established heterosexual monogamous marriage as the only legitimate site for sexual relations and positioned marriage and the family as central elements of the state’s governing technology. The law stated that marriage should be registered to be recognized by the state, and has become the basis for other policies related to a person’s citizenship rights. Marriage registration is crucial as it serves as the basis of status that affects other civil aspects of citizens, particularly involving family laws. In Law No. 23 of 2006, it is obligatory to report a marriage that is valid based on provisions outlined by laws and regulations, no later than sixty days after the date of marriage. It should also be recorded in the marriage certificate registry by an official at the population and civil registries agency (disdukcapil). The marriage legalization document obtained from the religious court can then be used at the population and civil registries agency to obtain other documents, including birth certificates. For Muslims, marriage is legally recognized only if documented by a marriage certificate issued by an authorized marriage registrar. A marriage that is valid under both religious and state law provides legal protection and certainty to the parties involved. Importantly, it secures the rights and legal status of the wife and children born from the marriage, particularly in matters such as 139 See “Laila berlaki dua,” Tempo, May 28, 1983. === [PDF page 98] === 98 inheritance, birth certificate issuance, divorce proceedings, and other related issues. For this reason, all marriages must be registered in accordance with the prevailing legal regulations. Conversely, marriages that are not registered in accordance with legal requirements can result in disadvantages for the husband, wife, children, and even other related parties. Such unregistered marriages, commonly referred to as nikah siri (unofficial marriage), are deemed valid under religious law but lack the legal strength of state recognition. Consequently, marriage registrars cannot issue marriage certificates for nikah siri, making such unions unverifiable and devoid of legal standing. However, couples who have entered into a nikah siri can apply for itsbat nikah at the Religious Court to address this lack of legal recognition. 140 After obtaining the court ruling, couples can request the KUA to officially register their marriage using the court-issued validation. Upon registration, a marriage certificate will be issued, enabling the couple to proceed with related matters, such as obtaining their children’s birth certificates through the local Civil Registry Office. This comprehensive process provides a legal pathway for couples in nikah siri to gain full recognition under state law, securing their legal rights and those of their families. In short, the enactment of the 1974 Marriage Law has had two significant effects: the increased importance of religious courts 141 and the further institutionalization of monogamous 140 Itsbat nikah is the legal validation of a marriage conducted in accordance with Islamic law but not officially recorded by the Office of Religious Affairs (Kantor Urusan Agama, KUA) or an authorized marriage registrar. Eligible applicants for itsbat nikah include the husband, wife, their children, the marriage guardian, and other parties with a vested interest in the marriage. Applications are only permissible under specific circumstances, including: (a) resolving divorce-related issues; (b) replacing a lost marriage certificate; (c) addressing doubts about the validity of certain marriage requirements; (d) legalizing marriages conducted before the enactment of the Marriage Law; and (e) validating marriages conducted without legal impediments under the Marriage Law. Applicants may submit their application to a local Religious Court independently or seek assistance from the court’s Legal Aid Post (Pos Bantuan Hukum, Posbakum) free of charge. There is a required case fee, but applicants who are unable to pay the requested amount may apply for a fee waiver (prodeo), which covers all court-related expenses. See Law No. 1 of 1974 on Marriage; Law No. 16 of 2019 amending Law No. 1 of 1974 on Marriage; and Presidential Instruction No. 1 of 1991 on the Dissemination of the Compilation of Islamic Law (Kompilasi Hukum Islam, KHI) as the legal basis. 141 In Indonesia, religious court (Pengadilan Agama, PA) refers specifically to the Islamic court. === [PDF page 99] === 99 marriage into the state’s family laws.142 In Indonesia, the enactment of the Marriage Law No. 1 of 1974 strengthened the jurisdiction of Islamic courts over matrimonial issues (Salim, 2008). Following the implementation of this law, the role of religious courts expanded considerably, as matters such as polygamy and divorce were reclassified from administrative issues to those requiring judicial proceedings. For Muslim individuals in particular, jurisdiction over these matters was transferred to religious courts (i.e., the Islamic courts) rather than civil courts. 143 Furthermore, the increased caseload of religious courts prompted greater efforts to reform these institutions, which had previously operated in a rather informal and inconsistent manner. 144 These reforms aimed to improve the courts’ professionalism and standardize their operations, aligning them more closely with the broader judicial system while addressing the demands of their expanded responsibilities. The religious courts faced the challenge of adapting to these changes. The role of these courts expanded beyond merely enforcing religious law; they now had to address broader societal demands. The then Minister of Religious Affairs, Mukti Ali, highlighted the increasing legal awareness within society and the rising sensitivity to issues of injustice. He outlined the new responsibilities of religious courts: to reduce divorce rates, limit polygamy, protect the rights of wives and former wives, and ensure the welfare of children. According to Mukti Ali, the ethical ideals of the 1974 Marriage Law emphasized family integrity, welfare, and happiness, guiding the 142 For further discussion on the early changes after the implementation of the 1974 Marriage Law and why this law has been successfully implemented, which was not anticipated by legal experts at that time, see J. Katz and R. Katz (1978). 143 Law No. 1 of 1974 on Marriage, Article 63. 144 See “Pengadilan agama dalam Kritik,” Tempo, August 18, 1973, p. 42: “The extent of such reforms should include... personnel, facilities, administration, and procedure.” === [PDF page 100] === 100 courts in their new responsibilities. 145 Despite these noble goals, he acknowledged the current state of the religious courts. The courts were plagued by inadequate infrastructure, incomplete libraries, and a scarcity of qualified judges. This situation, he warned, would undermine the prestige and authority of the courts. Therefore, urgent improvements were necessary to elevate the quality and function of these institutions. To address these challenges, Mukti Ali argued that religious court judges must not only be proficient in interpreting religious texts but also adept at applying customary and positive law. This dual competence was essential to prevent the religious courts from becoming stagnant in a dynamically evolving society. He stressed that judges should be seen not merely as government employees but as authoritative figures whose guidance carried significant weight.146 The evolution of Indonesia’s Religious Courts since the enactment of the 1974 Marriage Law reflects broader shifts in the country’s legal system, particularly in integrating Islamic law into state institutions. Historically, these courts handled matters related to marriage, divorce, inheritance, and other family issues under Islamic law, with cases typically argued by lawyers trained in general civil law. However, as legal complexities grew, so did the need for practitioners with expertise in Islamic jurisprudence (fiqh) to navigate religious legal matters effectively. Recognizing this gap, Minister of Religious Affairs Alamsyah, in his final efforts before leaving office, spearheaded reforms to allow graduates from State Islamic Institutes (IAIN), which specialized in Shari’a law, to practice as lawyers in Religious Courts. Beginning in the early 1980s, this change was formalized through a Joint Decree between the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court and the Minister of Religious Affairs, marking a pivotal shift in the professional landscape of these 145 146 “Pengadilan Agama Mengayomi Kaum Hawa”, Tempo, April 6, 1974, pp. 28–29. Ibid. === [PDF page 101] === 101 courts. For the first time, Islamic scholars could represent clients alongside law faculty graduates, ensuring that legal proceedings aligned more closely with Islamic legal principles. Unlike general courts, where lawyers aggressively advocate for their clients, religious courts prioritize mediating disputes, especially in divorce cases, where judges aim to prevent unnecessary separations. 147 The most significant aftereffect of the 1974 Marriage Law was the introduction of government regulations and policies that reinforced the ideal of a monogamous, heterosexual family structure. By establishing legal frameworks governing intimate relations and family, the law influenced subsequent policies aimed at homogenizing family and household structures. This shift was reflected, notably, in Government Regulation No. 10 of 1983, which imposed strict conditions on polygamous marriages among civil servants, effectively promoting monogamy within the state apparatus. Additionally, policies related to family planning, inheritance, and social welfare were structured around the assumption of a heteronormative nuclear family, further entrenching the state’s preference for monogamous heterosexual relations and traditional gender roles. Government Regulation No. 10 of 1983 was largely influenced by Dharma Wanita, an organization representing the wives of civil servants. Their recommendations, reviewed by the State Administration Agency (BAKN), culminated in the final regulation, approved by President Suharto on Kartini Day (April 21, 1983). 148 The key provisions are: (1) Marriage and Divorce Notification: Civil servants must notify their superiors in writing before entering their first marriage; (2) Polygamy Restrictions, which dictate that male civil servants must obtain written permission from their superiors to marry more than one wife, while female civil servants are strictly prohibited from entering polygamous marriages with fellow civil servants but may do so 147 148 “Pengacara berkudung”, Tempo, April 16, 1983, p. 63 Kartini was among the first women in Indonesia who opposed polygamy. === [PDF page 102] === 102 with non-civil servants, provided they obtain superior approval; (3) Divorce Authorization: Both male and female civil servants must seek formal approval before filing for divorce. Higher-ranking officials (ministers, governors, ambassadors, etc.) require direct approval from the President; (4) Cohabitation Ban: Civil servants are prohibited from living with someone of the opposite sex outside of a legal marriage; (5) Sanctions for Non-Compliance: Violators face demotion, removal from office, honorable discharge, or dishonorable discharge, depending on the severity of the violation. Male civil servants engaging in unauthorized polygamy face severe penalties, while female civil servants in such marriages face dishonorable discharge. Male civil servants wishing to take additional wives had to meet strict criteria: (1) Their first wife must be unable to fulfill marital duties due to illness or disability; (2) They must demonstrate sufficient financial means to support multiple families; and (3) They must obtain written consent from their first wife and guarantee equal treatment of all wives and children. 149 Government Regulation (PP) No. 10 of 1983 sparked considerable debate, particularly regarding its alignment with Islamic law, constitutional principles, and religious freedom. While it does not explicitly ban polygamy or divorce, it places such stringent conditions on them that they become nearly impossible for civil servants to pursue. Islamic and constitutional scholars have expressed divergent views on the regulation. Some Islamic law scholars argue that requiring official permission for polygamy and divorce is permissible (mubah) in Islam, as legal rulings can shift depending on the governing authority. This interpretation underscores the state’s role in shaping Islamic legal applications. However, constitutional experts have raised concerns about the regulation’s compatibility with existing laws and constitutional protections. Other experts pointed 149 “Zaman DI segera berakhir,” Tempo, May 7, 1983, pp. 14–15. === [PDF page 103] === 103 out that the Indonesian Constitution does not differentiate between civil servants and ordinary citizens, suggesting that the regulation “unfairly” imposes stricter marriage and divorce rules on civil servants.150 The requirement that civil servants obtain superior approval for divorce or remarriage has been particularly contentious. Many view this as an overreach of state power into personal and religious affairs. Critics argue that the regulation, while intended to enforce discipline, grants excessive authority to government officials over matters traditionally governed by religious scholars and personal conscience. Moreover, despite its goal of curbing polygamy and divorce among civil servants, research by Julia Suryakusuma (1996) suggests that the regulation has led to unintended consequences. While official polygamy and divorce rates declined, there was an increase in unregistered marriages, extramarital affairs, and increasing numbers of mistresses (Suryakusuma, 1996). This indicates that rather than eliminating polygamous or extramarital relationships, the regulation pushed these practices underground, creating new challenges for enforcement and justice. The debates surrounding polygamy highlight that Islamic interpretations, including those related to family matters such as polygamy, are not static. 151 Contrary to common assumptions about Islam as monolithic, Islamic interpretations are varied and may shift across time. On the issue of polygamy, particularly, women’s organizations in Indonesia have adopted varied stances: some advocate for state intervention to limit the practice, while others defend it as part of Islamic 150 “Kawin-cerai Melalui Atasan,” Tempo, May 14, 1983. Yet, long before the enactment of Government Regulation No. 10 of 1983, several government institutions had already implemented strict policies regarding marriage and divorce. The Armed Forces (ABRI), Attorney General’s Office, and Ministry of Justice had even stricter requirements. 151 Aihwa Ong examines the tension in postcolonial Malaysia between the state’s drive for modernization and bureaucratization and resistance to cultural imperialism, expressed through adherence to Islamic religious principles, particularly in discussions surrounding marriage and polygamy (Ong, 1999). See also Blackburn (2008) and LocherScholten (2000). === [PDF page 104] === 104 tradition. ‘Aisyiyah, for example, supported polygamy in the 1930s (or, for polygamy to remain within the purview of religious and adat authority), viewing it as a moral safeguard against promiscuity and extramarital sexual relationships, while nationalist and secular feminist groups like Isteri Sedar opposed it entirely.152 Their stance and interpretation of Quranic teachings may also change.153 Even within Islamic women’s organizations, divergence in interpreting Islamic teachings occurred. 154 Critics, who typically argue that such a practice is detrimental to the position of women, sometimes take a contextualist approach, arguing that Quranic references to polygamy reflect a historical intervention aimed at protecting children and widows in times of war and at constraining pre-Islamic practices of boundless polygamy (Nurmila, 2009). The debate continued into contemporary Indonesia between those advocating for more progressive interpretations of Islam and Islamic revivalist groups defending polygamy as an acceptable practice. 152 For discussions on polygamy, see Blackburn (2008), Locher-Scholten (2004), Nurmila (2009, and Vreede-de Stuers (1960). 153 In more recent times, for example, the Muhammadiyah Tarjih Conference in 2014 reinterpreted polygamy as permissible only under strict conditions of social necessity, moving away from the earlier notion of it as a sunnah. Personal communication with Kurniawati Hastuti Dewi, researcher at Research Center for Politics, National Research and Innovation Agency (BRIN), May 16, 2023. On the issue of polygamy and keluarga sakinah, see also Pimpinan Pusat ’Aisyiyah & Majelis Tarjih and Tajdid Pimpinan Pusat Muhammadiyah (2016). 154 Rachel Rinaldo (2011) argues that Islamic national organizations, Fatayat Nahdlatul Ulama and the Prosperous Justice Party (Partai Keadilan Sejahtera, PKS), play a pivotal role in filtering global discourses of feminism and Islamic revivalism on issues such as polygamy. Fatayat Nahdlatul Ulama, a women’s branch of the largest Islamic organization, took a stance against polygamy, citing the Prophet Muhammad’s practice as a specific response to historical circumstances, not a general prescription for Muslims today. While women affiliated with the Prosperous Justice Party took a more conservative view, supporting polygamy as permissible under the Quran and framing it as a solution for male sexual needs or situations where a wife cannot bear children. This reflects a broader divide between feminist and Islamic revivalist frameworks, with groups like Fatayat advocating for women’s equality in Islam and contextualizing Quranic teachings, while others like PKS adherents maintain a literalist approach. Islamic revival here refers to “a religious movement that emphasizes visible forms of pious practice. Emerging in the Middle East in the 1970s, it has been influential in Asia and Africa. The Islamic revival encompasses many currents but most attention focuses on political Islam, or movements that seek to bring Islam into the state” (Rinaldo, 2011). Islamic revival helped produce an upsurge of Islamic activism in the 1980s and 1990s, including a piety movement, calls for an Islamic state, as well as more liberal approaches to Islam (Sidel, 2006). The Prosperous Justice Party (PKS) was founded in 1998 and is one of Indonesia’s most successful new political parties. The organization initially called for an Islamic state but after a weak showing in the 1999 elections it was reconstituted with a more moderate platform. It no longer calls for shariah law but advocates for making Islam the source of policy. === [PDF page 105] === 105 Chapter Summary: Women, God, and the State Debates about marriage in Indonesia have never been solely about “women’s position” within the family. The debates were articulated over who holds the authority to govern family life and intimacy: God (as invoked through kodrat and religious precepts), the state, and women themselves as state subjects and political actors. These debates also reveal how marriage divides the citizenry along moral lines based on notions of virtue, piety, and national belonging. At the center of these struggles lies an imagined ideal of the family and “family values.” Family is built on marital and blood ties, presumed a separation between public and private spheres, equal vulnerability, and anchored in a rigid gender division of labor in which women are positioned as homemakers while men are expected to earn a family wage as breadwinners. The debates on marriage law reveal not only disagreements over particular marital practices such as polygamy, talak, and taklik but also a deeper struggle over who holds authority to govern family life and intimacy. Women’s organizations sought to improve women’s position within the family and the nation, and for women to be able to pursue their interests and consent to and exit from marriage. At the First Indonesian Women’s Congress, Mrs. R. A. Soedirman fiercely argued that in practice, women’s only recognized entitlements were the “right to be married,” the “right to be chosen for marriage,” and the “right to be divorced.” Thus, emphasizing women’s lack of agency within marriage and in consenting to both enter and exit a marriage. On the other side of the debates, women’s organizations affiliated with Islamic mass organizations such as ‘Aisyiyah appealed to Islamic law and naturalization of sexual differences while avoiding engagement with issues of injustice faced by women due to unequal power structures within the family. Figures such as Mrs. Siti Moendjijah insisted that “Islamic law teaches that men and women are different” and === [PDF page 106] === 106 framed male authority over talak as appropriate because women were perceived as “more impulsive,” “less patient,” and “more easily hurt.” Polygamy, talak, and women’s duties within the family were justified as part of kodrat (natural order). However, other women activists, most notably Maria Ulfah, argued that marriage law “must be brought into alignment with the Qur’an” through revised interpretations that would “limit men’s universal authority in marriage” and protect women from arbitrary repudiation. Hence, it brings the issue of interpretations of Islamic precepts to the forefront of the debates. Across periods, debates on marriage law continue to be framed in terms of religious versus secular and competing authority between adat, religion, and the state. Women’s organizations, however, attempted to shift the terms of the debates by foregrounding women’s vulnerability and rights. Beginning in the 1950s, women started to anchor their claims in the language of human rights. For example, they argued that marriage law should be brought in line with the Universal Declaration of Human Rights adopted in the Constitution, quoting Article 16 on “equal rights as to marriage, during marriage and at its dissolution” and stating that “marriage shall be entered into only with the free and full consent of the intending spouses.” Muslim groups tend to circumvent women’s demands and generally seek to maintain the status quo or limit changes to specific statutes, fearing that broader reforms could undermine religious authority. In the 1968 DPRGR debates, for example, Islamic factions insisted that “marriage should be governed independently by each religion,” and figures such as Mochtar Rasjid (Nadhlatul Ulama) argued that “since the nation adheres to Pancasila as a tenet and believes in the God Almighty, marriage should be governed by religion and solely fall under the jurisdiction of the Ministry of Religious Affairs.” === [PDF page 107] === 107 Hence, refusing state interference in matters of marriage and family, which they perceived should be exclusively under the authority of Islam for Muslims. Both the colonial government and later Indonesian state also tried to impose themselves as the ultimate authority in governing the family and intimate life of their citizens, often in the name of national unity and progress. The 1937 proposal to implement a marriage ordinance (which mandated monogamy, abolished talak, and limited divorce to court rulings), while in line with feminist demands, failed. The proposal was widely denounced by Islamic groups as illegitimate interference in religious affairs and by women from nationalist groups as a form of “divide et impera” tactic that threatened the anticolonial struggle. The drafting of marriage law often prioritized “unity,” meaning both national unity and the unity of the women’s movement in the face of conflicting interests, and it often did so at the expense of women and disadvantaged groups. Marriage (and by extension family) becomes a contested site where competing authorities struggle to establish the national moral order. Women activists demanded protection and autonomy, yet often framed rights as conditional on fulfilling “kewajiban perempuan” within the household and the nation. Women do not simply internalize religious, state, or adat dictates. Instead, they selectively engage with these frameworks, reinterpreting or resisting them to assert their own moral legitimacy (see also, Platt et al., 2018). Islamic authorities invoked divine law and kodrat to naturalize gender hierarchy, while some reformists sought to reinterpret that law from within, and state actors saw marriage as a key instrument for producing modern and moral subjects and a nation. The Marriage Law was a culmination of a long political struggle in which marriage became the primary site for determining the place of women and Islam within the postcolonial nation-state. === [PDF page 108] === 108 The outcome is not only the codification of a single, state-sanctioned model of family, sexuality, and kinship but also the consolidation of an embedded and often invisible moral framework in which women, God, and the state remain mutually entangled, that is, a moral infrastructure grounded in the heteronormative family. Assumptions about this family form were gradually translated into administrative and technical structures, institutionalized through laws and policies, and reproduced through state bodies such as the Religious (Islamic) Courts, the BP4 under the Ministry of Religious Affairs, and the Civil Registry (disdukcapil). In doing so, the Marriage Law’s definition of legitimate marriage draws the boundary of who may form a legally recognized family and, by extension, who may access the state’s protections, entitlements, and privileges afforded by their citizenship status. === [PDF page 109] === 109 Chapter Three Defending the Family Heteronormative family as a moral infrastructure operates like a background programming of our life and often only becomes visible in moments of breakdown or contestation (Chapter 1). Through the 1974 Marriage Law, the state established what kind of relationship and family arrangement are recognized and legitimated. The law defines marriage as a reproductive, heterosexual (primarily monogamous) conjugal partnership between two adults of certain age who are not related by blood (Chapter 2). Marriage thus becomes not only the gateway to legally recognized family but also a moral boundary separating sexual relations, family arrangements and kinship ties that are deemed licit and proper (intramarital heterosexual relationship) from those considered illicit and improper (any other sexual relationship apart from those within heterosexual marriage). This chapter analyzes how legal and policy debates surrounding the family reaffirm the boundaries between those who are “proper” (or meritorious) citizens and those who are not. Such contestations which put the moral infrastructure to test are waged during moments of perceived uncertainty when the existing moral order is challenged and there appears to be a crisis of meanings. I focus on two contemporary cases that illustrate efforts to potentially further reinforce the heteronormative family: 1) a judicial review petition by the conservative pro-family organization, Aliansi Cinta Keluarga (AILA); and 2) the proposed Family Resilence Bill (Rancangan Undang-Undang Ketahanan Keluarga). First, I examine the AILA judicial review petition which sought to uphold the heteronormative family ideal justifying exclusionary state regulations on gender and sexuality. This legal initiative often appeals to moral, cultural, or === [PDF page 110] === 110 religious arguments to argue against the expansion of rights for marginalized groups which also include LGBT individuals. Second, I also look into the Family Resilience Bill, a legislative proposal to codify a rigid, state-sanctioned definition of family, emphasizing the heterosexual nuclear family model as not only the ideal but also the only legitimate structure for social organization. The bill includes provisions that mandate gendered division of labor while also positioning marriage and reproduction within a heteronormative framework.155 It further prohibits non-normative family formations, homosexual relationships, and gender nonconformity by restricting their legal recognition and imposing punitive measures. As the debates unfolded, I show how a vision of moral citizenship anchored in the heteronormative family is articulated and how mobilizing groups used affective rhetorics of protection, virtue, and national resilience to justify exclusionary state regulation. Ultimately, both initiatives reinforced existing system of social control that disciplines bodies, desires, and identities in alignment with a state-sanctioned moral order. These policy and legal debates also show how interpretations about the family are continuously contested and potentially reconfigured through political struggles and legal or policy interventions. Understanding why certain acts are deemed normal while others are labeled deviant, or why some behaviors are criminalized while others are not, offers an insight into broader questions of political and moral authority, social control, justice, and the reproduction of inequalities in the lives of the citizens. 155 While it is not the focus of this study, the draft also strictly regulates reproductive autonomy (article 31 and 32 of Family Resilience Bill). Reproductive technologies, bodily autonomy, and non-normative sexualities are tightly policed through a moralizing legal apparatus: surrogacy, sperm and egg donation, and reproductive counseling are permitted only within heterosexual marriage and subjected to state oversight. Thus effectively instituting a form of moral gatekeeping that disproportionately impacts women, sexual minorities, and those outside normative family arrangements. === [PDF page 111] === 111 Cases Overview AILA Judicial Review Petition In June 2016, a judicial review petition was submitted to the Constitutional Court seeking to criminalize a wide spectrum of sexual practices outside the heterosexual monogamous conjugal family.156 The petitioners were mobilized under the banner of a pro-family group, Aliansi Cinta Keluarga (AILA)—an alliance of civil organizations focusing on “pengokohan keluarga.” 157 AILA’s public interventions advance a conservative moral agenda centered on the protection of a heteronormative family and the visibility of LGBT communities (Rochman & Syamsiyatun, 2019). Here, the group mobilized a moral-legal argument that positions a broad spectrum of sexual and gender non-conformity as incompatible (and threatening to) existing moral order. In short, AILA advanced the view that the legal vacuum concerning sexual and gender non-conformity risk undermining the heteronormative family. The petition was brought in parallel to the drafting of a revision of the Criminal Code (Kitab Undang-Undang Hukum Pidana, KUHP) by the legislature. 158 The petitioners aimed to expand several provisions within the Indonesian Criminal Code (Kitab Undang-Undang Hukum Pidana, KUHP), in particular, article 284, 285, and 292 (Table 3.1). 159 156 Case Number 46/PUU-XIV/2016. The petitioners consist of 12 individuals. Among them are university lecturers: Euis Sunarti, Fitrah Faisal Hastiadi and Dona Furqan. Five petitioners identify as homemakers: Nurul Hidayati Kusuma Hastuti Ubaya, Sabriati Aziz, Sri Vira Chandra, Quota Ayuni and Rita Hendrawati Soebagio. Two other petitioners work in private sector–Dinar Dewi Kania and Akmal. 158 Two separate Codes were introduced under the Dutch colonial administration, Wetboek van Strafrecht for European only in 1867 and Strafwet voor Inlanders in 1872. Not until 1918 was a new criminal code for all ethnic groups issued—the Wetboek van Strafwet (Kitab Undang-Undang Hukum Pidana, KUHP) (Cribb, 2010). Government Regulation No.1/1945 and No.73/1957 enforced the use of KUHP across Indonesia, while Government Regulation No.2/1945 provided that colonial laws would be valid so long as they are consistent with the Constitution. notes at least there were two other drafts that have circulated since 2000. It was also important to note that, during the writing of this dissertation, the government passed Law No.1 of 2023 on Criminal Code which will take effect in 2026 three years after its enactment. 159 Mahkamah Konstitusi Republik Indonesia (MKRI), Putusan Nomor 46/PUU-XIV/2016. 157 === [PDF page 112] === 112 Table 3. 2 Provisions under reviewed in the AILA judicial review petition Current Criminal Code Article 284 (1) By a maximum imprisonment of 9 months shall be punished: a. any married man [“yang beristri”] who knowing that Article 27 of the Civil Code is applicable to him, commits adultery; b. any married woman [“yang bersuami”] who commits adultery. a. any man who takes a direct part in the act of knowing that the guilty partner is married. b. any unmarried woman who takes a direct part in the act knowing that the guilty partner is married and that Article 27 of the Civil Code is applicable to him. (2) No prosecution shall be installed unless by complaint of the insulted spouse, followed by a demand for divorce or severance from board and bed within the time of 3 months, if Article 27 of the Civil Code is applicable. (3) In respect of this complaint Articles 72, 73, and 75 [regarding filing and withdrawal of complaint in crimes to be prosecuted only upon complaint] shall not be applicable. (4) The complaint may be withdrawn as long as the judicial investigation has not commenced. (5) If Article 27 of the Civil Code is applicable to the spouse, the complaint shall not be complied with as long as the marriage has not been severed by divorce or the verdict whereby severance from bed and board has been pronounced, has not become final. AILA petition Article 284 to include any extra-marital sex and to change the filing process to be based not on complaint but on finding. Article 285 Article 285 to include rape Any person who by using force or threat of force forces a woman who against men, same-sex rape, is not his wife [“perempuan yang bukan istrinya”] to have sexual and marital rape. intercourse with him out of marriage, shall, being guilty of rape, be punished by a maximum imprisonment of twelve years. Article 292 Any adult who commits any obscene act with a minor of the same sex whose minority he/she knows or reasonably should presume, shall be punished by a maximum imprisonment of 5 years. Article 292 should be expanded to prohibit any same-sex sexual relation including those between consenting adults. First, the petitioners asked to broaden the scope of Article 284 by removing the phrases that restrict zina only to cases of adultery involving a married person and a third party who is aware of the person’s marital status. By deleting the terms “yang beristri,” “yang bersuami,” and clauses === [PDF page 113] === 113 requiring knowledge of marital status, the definition of adultery would be expanded from an offense committed against the marital bond to an offense that could be applied to any extra-marital sex. The petitioners also asked for the filing process to be changed from complaint-based (delik aduan) into finding-based (delik biasa) offense.160 Second, the petitioners asked to change Article 285 by removing the phrase “perempuan yang bukan istrinya,” arguing that this wording limits the definition of rape to only cases involving a male perpetrator and a female victim who is not his wife and thus excludes other forms of sexual violence, including rape against men, same-sex rape and marital rape. Lastly, The petitioners also targeted Article 292, which currently criminalizes same-sex acts only when they involve a minor. The petitioners also suggested that the age-related phrases “dewasa,” “belum dewasa,” and the requirement that the perpetrator know the victim is a minor be removed. 161 Thus, any same-sex sexual acts would be punishable by law including those between consenting adults. In effect, such changes would transform Article 292 into a blanket criminalization of homosexuality. Although extra-marital sex and homosexuality are generally frowned upon and considered sinful, these acts are not punishable under the current Indonesian Criminal Code except under some regional laws (most notably, in Aceh, under the Islamic criminal law or Qanun jinayat). It is also crucial to note that not all non-marital sexual acts are deliberate rejections of normativity. Many are neither politically motivated nor consciously 160 As in Article 284 of current Criminal Code, the revised Criminal Code (Law No.1 of 2023) also classifies adultery as a complaint-based offense. However, a complaint may be filed by not only a spouse whose fidelity has been violated in the case of married individuals but also a parent or child in the case of those who are unmarried (Article 411 Law No.1 of 2023). 161 The revised Criminal Code (Law No.1 of 2023) Article 411 to Article 423 contain provisions defining a set of offenses as perzinaan (adultery), pencabulan (indecent acts), and crimes of kekerasan seksual (sexual violence). The provisions criminalizes a wide array of sexual and moral misconduct including adultery (defined as any extramarital sex) and cohabitation outside marriage, incestuous intercourse, a broad category of indecent acts (public indecency, forced indecency, indecency linked to pornography, and indecency against unconcious persons and children), aggravated indecent acts, and “grooming” committed by persons in positions of authority. === [PDF page 114] === 114 transgressive. Nonetheless, they offer a starting point for reimagining how intimate life might be organized outside of dominant legal and moral scripts. During the hearing process spanning June 2016 to December 2017, several experts testified at the Constitutional Court, including academics from notable universities and the Indonesian Ulema Council (Majelis Ulama Indonesia, MUI). The petitioners, mobilized in defense of the family, portrayed the Criminal Code as a colonial remnant unfit to contemporary Indonesia. By November 2016, the transcripts reveal frustration on both sides of the debates with the judges increasingly emphasize the limits of judicial authority and demanding clarity on the putative existence of constitutional injury (Table 3.2). Table 4.2 The trajectory of the AILA judicial review petition, 2016-2017 Date Event / Hearing Framing and Shifts 7 June 2016 Preliminary hearing–petition filed AILA frames the petition as a defense of national morality. Petitioners invoke Pancasila, the Constitution, and the “danger” of promiscuity (sex bebas, often translated as “free sex”) and homosexuality. The Criminal Code is labelled a colonial relic unfit for modern Indonesia. 20 June 2016 Submitted amendment to the petition Petitioners refine legal demands: seek conversion of extra-marital sex and homosexuality into crimes (and to be changed into delik biasa). Focus expands to include the threats of “national harm,” not just family breakdown. 19 July 2016 Government and DPR Statement Government signals discomfort with petition scope. Judges ask petitioners to clarify constitutional relevance. 26 July 2016 DPR statement and expert testimony Strong emotive and religious framings (moral decline, youth corruption, societal collapse). Musni Umar testifies conflating adultery and rape and framing the two as “crimes against humanity.” 1 and 23 August 2016 Expert testimony Experts invoke psychiatry (Dadang Hawari), Islamic precepts (MUI), and criminology to argue that morality is a national interest. Petitioners claim === [PDF page 115] === 115 scientific legitimacy while pathologizing nonnormative gender and sexuality. 30 August 2016 Related partytestimony: National Commission on Violence Against Women (Komnas Perempuan) and Institute for Criminal Justice Reform (ICJR) Counter-narratives introduced: concerns over rights erosion, misuse of morality clauses. Concerns about institutional boundaries begin to surface. I Dewa Gede Palguna cautions: “Do not ask this Court to be a positive legislator.” 8 Sept – 17 Oct Hearings with 2016 Civil Society and Experts Petitioners oscillate between religious justification and moral concerns. Civil society warns of state overreach. Discourse on “protecting children” becomes central. 26 Oct – 7 Nov 2016 Further hearings: MUI, YPS, Komnas Perempuan Increasing reliance on moral collapse narratives. Judges increasingly assert constitutional constraints. 16–28 Nov 2016 Saturation of arguments and rhetorics Moral-nationalist framing stalled. Public criticism grows. Dec 2016 – Feb 2017 Final expert hearings Petitioners emphasize sexual deviance as a threat. Court foregrounded legal formalities. Disciplinary language is normalized (e.g., penyimpangan seksual). Throughout 2017 Public and media debate Intensifies Human rights groups mobilized. 14 Dec 2017 Justice deliberation hearing (putusan) Petition rejected (5–4). Majority: No constitutional grounds. Minority: Court should protect morality. Court affirms its role as negative legislator. The Constitutional Court serves as an avenue where competing claims about morality, citizenship, and identity are performed. Petitioners, judges, and expert witnesses all contribute to the production of the “moral citizen” through legal, moral, and scientific reasonings as well as personal testimonies. This process also makes visible the disciplinary function of law: not only to === [PDF page 116] === 116 adjudicate, but also to construct and potentially reconfigure moral boundaries. The AILA judicial review petition was ultimately rejected. However, this outcome does not indicate a departure from the heteronormative family as a moral infrastructure. The Court refused the petition on the ground of judicial formalism, while tacitly reaffirming the primacy of the heteronormative family. Nevertheless, the petition successfully provoked public debates and reflections on the limits of state power and on the ways family, intimate life, and the nation are imagined. Family Resilience Bill The Family Resilience Bill emerged as a deeply polarizing proposal, raising concerns about gender and sexual discriminations, human rights, state intervention in private life, and legislative redundancy. While its proponents claim it aims to strengthen family institutions, critics argue that it infringes on privacy, further institutionalizes gender hierarchy, and enables state surveillance over personal relationships.162 The draft of the Family Resilience Bill was first introduced on July 10, 2017, by Commission III of the Regional Representative Council (Dewan Perwakilan Daerah, DPD RI). However, it was not included in the 2015–2019 National Legislative Program (Program Legislasi Nasional, Prolegnas), and gradually lost momentum. 163 In December 2019, the bill resurfaced in the House of Representatives (Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat, DPR), sponsored by a coalition of 162 Amindoni, A. (2020, February 21). Polemik RUU Ketahanan Keluarga: “Negara masuk ke kamar tidur warga negara” dan “pelanggengan budaya patriarki.” BBC News Indonesia. https://www.bbc.com/indonesia/indonesia51571135 163 The Family Resilience Bill (Rancangan Undang-Undang Ketahanan Keluarga) was not included in the National Legislative Program (Program Legislasi Nasional, or Prolegnas) as specified in Decision of the House of Representatives of the Republic of Indonesia Number 7/DPR RI/II/2016–2017, nor in Decision Number 19/DPR RI/I/2018–2019, which established the revised national legislative program for the 2015–2019 period. === [PDF page 117] === 117 legislators: Netty Prasetiyani and Ledia Hanifa from the Prosperous Justice Party (PKS), Sodik Mudjahid from the Great Indonesia Movement Party (Gerindra), Ali Taher from the National Mandate Party (PAN), and Endang Maria Astuti from the Functional Group (Golkar) Party.164 Although the bill was included in the 2020 Priority Prolegnas and progressed to the “harmonization” phase within the Legislative Body (Badan Legislasi, Baleg) of DPR, the Golkar faction later withdrew its support, weakening the coalitional backing for the bill. 165 The Golkar Party withdrew its support for the Family Resilience Bill (RUU Ketahanan Keluarga) stating that Endang Maria Astuti had proposed it without prior consultation. Golkar lawmaker Nurul Arifin stated, “We are caught off guard that our member is among the initiators of the Family Resilience Bill. We withdraw our support for this bill.” 166 She criticized the lack of internal coordination within the party, noting that the Legislative Body (Badan Legislative, Baleg) had already objected to the draft early on. The proposed legislation provoked widespread public criticism for what was perceived as an excessive intrusion into the domain of family life, particularly its attempt to impose rigid gender roles on husbands and wives and to police people’s intimate life. Following heightened media scrutiny and opposition from civil society organizations, parliamentary deliberations on the bill 164 Under the Decision of the House of Representatives of the Republic of Indonesia Number 1/DPR RI/II/2019– 2020 concerning the National Legislative Program for Priority Bills in 2020, the Family Resilience Bill was included as item number 35 out of 50 proposed bills. The academic manuscript (naskah akademik) and draft legislation (Rancangan Undang-Undang, RUU) were prepared by the House of Representatives (DPR). 165 Harmonization refers to the process of aligning the substance and structure of draft laws to ensure consistency across legal instruments within the national legal system and coherence across hierarchical and equivalent regulations. Harmonization here includes aligning legal drafts with the principles of Pancasila, the Preamble to the 1945 Constitution, the Constitution itself, and higher or equivalent legislation. See also Law No. 12 of 2011 on the Formation of Laws and Regulations; Government Regulation (PP) No. 59 of 2015 on the Participation of Legal Drafters in the Formation and Development of Legislation. 166 Bhwana, P. G. (2020, February 20). Golkar Withdraws Support for Family Resilience Bill. Tempo. https://en.tempo.co/read/1309956/golkar-withdraws-support-for-family-resilience-bill. === [PDF page 118] === 118 were officially suspended on 18 November 2020 (Table 3.3).167 Whether the Family Resilience Bill will be permanently shelved, however, the continued debate makes clear that struggles over the family remain central to the politics of gender, sexuality, and citizenship in contemporary Indonesia.168 Table 3.3 The trajectory of the Family Resilience Bill Date Event July 2017 Commission III of the Regional Representative Council (Dewan Perwakilan Daerah, DPD) officially submitted a draft of the Family Resilience Bill on July 10, 2017. 2017–2019 Despite the proposal, the bill was not included in the National Legislative Program (Prolegnas) for the legislative period of 2015-2019. The bill gradually lost its traction and was effectively dropped from the legislative agenda. December 2019 A new push to revive the bill came from members of the House of Representatives (Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat, DPR), specifically Netty Prasetiyani and Ledia Hanifa (PKS), Sodik Mudjahid (Gerindra), Ali Taher (PAN), and Endang Maria Astuti (Golkar). The bill was proposed December 17, 2019. 167 According to the Legislative Body (Badan Legislasi, Baleg) Meeting Report deliberation on the Family Resilience Bill was postponed to allow further review. Four factions (PDI-P, Golkar, PKB, and the Democratic Party) rejected advancing the bill, while Gerindra, PKS, PAN, and PPP supported its progression. The House Legislative Body (Baleg) announced the decision during a hearing session on Tuesday, in which five out of the nine factions at the House voted against continuing the deliberation. Gumelar, G. (2020, November 27). House nixes family resilience bill. The Jakarta Post. https://www.thejakartapost.com/paper/2020/11/26/house-nixes-familyresilience-bill.html 168 My fieldwork concluded in 2024. However, between the completion of data collection and the final submission of my dissertation, a new draft of the Family Resilience Bill re-emerged and was reintroduced into the national legislative agenda through its inclusion in the latest National Legislative Program (Prolegnas). Prolegnas refers to the “priority scale of the legislative drafting program.” It is established for both mid-term and annual periods, based on legislative priorities. The mid-term Prolegnas outlines national legal development policies for the five-year term of the House of Representatives (DPR). According to the Decision of the House of Representatives of the Republic of Indonesia Number 64/DPR RI/I/2024–2025, which sets out the National Legislative Program for Priority Bills in 2025 and the National Legislative Program for 2025–2029, the Bill on Quality Family Development / Family Resilience Bill (the draft was proposed on November 19, 2024) was included as item 137 out of 176 in the mid-term Prolegnas. The bill, along with its academic manuscript (naskah akademik), would be jointly prepared by the House of Representatives (DPR) and the Regional Representative Council (DPD). Nevertheless, despite being listed in the mid-term Prolegnas, the bill was not included among the priority bills scheduled for deliberation in 2025, as decided in the 8th Plenary Session of the DPR RI during the First Session of the 2024–2025 legislative year. === [PDF page 119] === 119 Early-mid 2020 The bill was included in the 2020 Priority Prolegnas and enters the “harmonization” stage in the Legislative Body (Baleg) of the DPR. February 2020 The Golkar party faction withdraws its support, weakening the bill’s coalition backing. November 2020 The DPR decided to postpone deliberations on the bill following public backlash. Late 2020 The bill faced widespread criticism for intruding on private life of citizens and posing a serious threat to minority rights. While the 2017 proposal drafted by the DPD only consists of 8 chapters and 30 articles, the proposed 2020 Family Resilience Bill consists of 15 chapters and 146 articles, covering various aspects of family life including reproduction, child-rearing, protection, institutional surveillance, data management, public participation, funding, and sanctions (Table 3.4). Table 3.4 Key provisions of the Family Resilience Bill (2017 and 2020 drafts) Key provisions 2017 2020 Declares family resilience as integral to national resilience (ketahanan nasional) and prioritizes its strengthening as part of national development. The draft emphasizes that national development must include the creation of strong family structures to ensure a resilient nation. Family resilience is framed as a prerequisite for national strength in facing globalization and socio-cultural change. The draft defines family resilience as a dynamic condition in which families manage physical and nonphysical resources to ensure stability and well-being. National and regional master plans for family resilience are introduced, outlining long-term, medium-term, and annual strategies. See Article 3 (2), 3(3) See Article 2(e), Article 3-4(1-2), and Penjelasan Umum State regulation of family life The bill defines detailed roles, stages, and duties within family life, including interaction norms and internal functioning. The bill mandates government involvement at all levels—central, regional, and community-based—in family welfare initiatives. Family resilience is classified into See Article 5, Article 6–7 (rights and four areas: physical, socio-cultural, obligations), Article 13–16 === [PDF page 120] === 120 economic, and socio-psychological resilience. It regulates internal family roles and responsibilities through legal mandates: father as provider, mother as household manager. The state sets behavioral norms and duties. See Article 25-27, Article 33 Family protection measures Families are entitled to protection from violence, discrimination, and social risks. The state is required to protect them from economic, social, and cultural threats that could erode the family unit. See Article 6(1) (2) (3) and Article 8 To prevent family disputes, separations, and conflicts, the bill proposes legal protection for family unity, including safeguards against family vulnerabilities and mechanisms for handling crisis situations. Establishes protections against threats such as economic hardship, violence, pornography, and deviant behavior, including “sexual deviance.” See Article 17, Article 21, Article 34, 35 Child rearing and guardianship Emphasizes stages of family development based on the presence and growth of children, including provisions for parenting, emotional intelligence, and intergenerational care. See Article 12 and Article 14 Parents are required to raise children with religious, moral, intellectual, and civic values. Child-rearing responsibilities are prioritized for biological parents, with exceptions based on legal considerations for the child’s best interests. Guardianship rules allow adult family members to take legal responsibility for other family members through court-appointed processes. See Article 20, Article 23, Article 24 Creation of a family resilience institution The draft proposes a “Platform Nasional Pembangunan Ketahanan Keluarga” as a non-governmental coordinating body to enhance the A new government body dedicated to family resilience is proposed. This non-ministerial institution, reporting directly to the President, === [PDF page 121] === 121 effectiveness of family resilience programs. See Article 1(27) would have regional branches at the provincial and district levels. It would oversee family counseling centers responsible for implementing family resilience policies. The draft of bill mandates the creation of Lembaga Ketahanan Keluarga (Family Resilience Body) at the national level to implement and oversee policy. See Article 44-46 Creation of a family resilience data system Establishes a system for data collection and information management as part of implementation, monitoring, and planning mechanisms. See Article 8(4)(g) A national information system will collect detailed family data, monitor family-related issues, and serve as a database for policy-making and public awareness. It includes provisions for the establishment of a family database and monitoring system to inform policy and intervention. See Article 47 (1-3) Public participation and incentives Encourages involvement from communities, academia, and the private sector in policymaking and implementation. While incentives are not elaborated in detail, the participatory model is central. See Article 5(6), Article 4(1)(b) The public–including individuals, educational institutions, religious organizations, social groups, and businesses–is encouraged to actively support family resilience programs. The government may provide awards and incentives for contributions to family resilience efforts. It promotes community and religious organizations’ involvement but within normative guidelines. See Article 5(c), Article 6, and Article 41 Monitoring, evaluation, and funding Monitoring and evaluation mechanisms are built into the implementation process, including oversight, planning, harmonization, and infrastructure support. See Article 8 (4) (a-h) The central and local governments must conduct annual evaluations using a family resilience index. Funding for the bill’s implementation will come from state and regional budgets, with potential support from legally approved === [PDF page 122] === 122 external sources. It seeks to establish a comprehensive mechanism for M&E through the Family Resilience Body, along with funding from state and local budgets. See Article 48-49 Sanction for noncompliance This draft does not explicitly detail punitive sanctions for families or institutions. Rather, it emphasizes developmental and supportive approaches. Penalties include temporary or permanent loss of parental rights, imprisonment, fines, business license revocation, and legal status annulment. Specifies criminal sanctions for violations, including bans on surrogacy, gamete donation, and sexual practices deemed deviant. This version introduces punitive enforcement absent in the 2017 draft. See Article 33 (3), Article 34-35, Article 50 The changes from the 2017 to the 2020 draft exemplifies a broader ideological shift in Indonesian family policy. While earlier family-planning provisions of the bill promoted “keluarga berkualitas” (a high-quality family) through education and economic development, the 2020 draft foregrounds top-down enforcement of heteronormative ideal, operationalizing family resilience through duties, centralized planning, and punitive legal mechanisms. The 2020 draft explicitly reinforces a heteronormative sexual division of labor by casting men as heads of households and primary providers, while assigning women to domestic and caregiving duties.169 Article 25 of the Family Resilience Bill stipulates: 169 While it is not the focus of this study, the draft also strictly regulate reproductive autonomy (article 31 and 32). Reproductive technologies, bodily autonomy, and non-normative sexualities are tightly policed through a moralizing legal apparatus: surrogacy, sperm and egg donation, and reproductive counseling are permitted only within === [PDF page 123] === 123 (1) Every husband and wife bound by a lawful marriage shall carry out their respective obligations in accordance with religious norms, social ethics, and laws. (2) The obligations of the husband as referred to in paragraph (1) include, among others: a. serving as the head of the family, responsible for maintaining the integrity and welfare of the family, providing for the household in accordance with his capabilities, and ensuring the legality of the family’s civil status; b. protecting the family from discrimination, cruelty, crime, abuse, exploitation, sexual deviation, and neglect; c. protecting himself and the family from gambling, pornography, promiscuity and illicit sex, as well as the misuse of narcotics, alcohol, psychotropic substances, and other addictive substances; and d. engaging in deliberation (musyawarah) with all family members in addressing family problems. (3) The obligations of the wife as referred to in paragraph (1) include, among others:a. managing household affairs to the best of her ability; b. safeguarding the integrity of the family; and c. treating her husband and children well and fulfilling the rights of her husband and children in accordance with religious norms, social ethics, and laws. The two drafts also differ in terms of their recognition of women’s rights and duties within the family. The 2017 draft supports the creation of family-friendly work environments and promotes the sharing of domestic responsibilities. It implicitly recognizes the need for structural support to enable both caregiving and economic participation. Meanwhile, although the 2020 draft provides for maternity leave and limited forms of state support under Article 29, it often reverts back to naturalizing care work as primarily the woman’s domain. These provisions, in particular, had been criticized for reinforcing patriarchal norms and contradicting Indonesia’s legal commitments to gender equality. Indonesia has ratified the Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination Against Women (CEDAW) through Law No. 7 of 1984, which obligates the country to integrate gender equality into the national regulatory frameworks. Measured against the CEDAW’s definition of gender discrimination, the provision raises serious concerns. It reinforces legal distinctions between men and women rooted in outdated gender stereotypes. It undermines heterosexual marriage and subjected to state oversight. Thus effectively instituting a form of moral gatekeeping that disproportionately impacts women, sexual minorities, and those outside normative family arrangements. === [PDF page 124] === 124 women’s financial autonomy and curtails their participation in the workforce. Moreover, it constrains women’s autonomy, particularly for those who reject gender division of labor. The breadwinner-homemaker archetype codified in Article 25 echoes the New Order’s State Ibuism (Suryakusuma, 1996) and revives women (particulary mothers) as the moral bastion of the nation. The 2017 draft is less explicit in its regulation of gender and sexuality thus allowing a broader interpretation of familial roles. While still anchored in marriage, it incorporates language that allows for some room for a broader interpretation of what constitutes a family. Nevertheless, in both versions, the family serves as a site where the state not only asserts its authority over private intimate life but also shapes citizen subjectivity. The Family Resilience Bill, particularly the 2020 draft, situates the family as a disciplinary site where moral citizenship is contingent on adherence to rigid gender norms and reproductive conformity. Furthermore, the diminishing role of civil society in the 2020 draft reflects a broader shift away from participatory governance toward moral paternalism. While the 2017 draft sought to foster collaboration with NGOs, academics, and community organizations in shaping family development policies, the 2020 draft sought to centralize control in the state. It mandates reporting requirements and imposes standards of behaviour in accordance to exisiting moral order based on heteronormativy with the state as an arbiter. This expansion of moral governance into everyday family life reflects an impulse to discipline the family and intimate life disguised as expansion of welfare policies. The AILA judicial review petition and the Family Resilience Bill make visible the embedded script of heteronormative family that privileged certain bodies, desires, and identities. They reveal the ways in which unexamined heteronormative assumptions naturalize hierarchical structure of the ideal family and justify the women’s exclusion (and their confinement to traditional === [PDF page 125] === 125 gendered roles as wives and mothers) as well as gender and sexual non-conforming individuals. These cases exemplifiy what feminist theorists have long warned: rather than serving as a neutral arbiter, the law embodies patriarchal power while presenting itself as universal and objective (Fineman et al., 2009; MacKinnon, 1989a, 2017; Olsen, 1985). Particularly with regards to the Constitution, Catherine MacKinnon argues that: The state is male jurisprudentially, meaning that it adopts the standpoint of male power on the relation between law and society. This stance is especially vivid in constitutional adjudication, thought legitimate to the degree it is neutral on the policy content of legislation. The foundation for its neutrality is the pervasive assumption that conditions that pertain among men on the basis of gender apply to women as well—that is, the assumption that sex inequality does not really exist in society. The Constitution—the constituting document of this state society—with its interpretations assumes that society, absent government intervention, is free and equal; that its laws, in general, reflect that; and that government need and should right only what government has previously wronged (MacKinnon, 1989, p. 163). Constitutional law (“the constituting document of society”) is built on the assumptions of male experience as neutral, universal standpoint. Thus, social inequality, in particular gender hierarchy, is perceived as natural. In this sense, the Constitution serves to limit government power and protect the already existing moral (and social) order, while offering little to those seeking to challenge them. Both initiatives are ultimately rejected (or, stalled). Yet, regardless the outcomes, the heteronormative nuclear family remains the only form of family protected and promoted by the state through its legal institutions, while other forms of “family” are cast as deviant or threatening. Forms of intimacy enshrined within the heteronormative family is perceived as moral and natural rather than enforced structure continuously maintained through institutional practices and contested through politics. Using the language of “family values” or “natural” intimacy (as in the notion of kodrat), the law maintains the institutionalization of a patriarchal heteronormative === [PDF page 126] === 126 kinship while marginalizing others (single mothers, women heads of household, and ‘LGBT’ families). The Public-Private Divides A particular point of contestation during the debates surrounding the AILA judicial review petition and the Family Resilience Bill was the assumed public-private divide between family and the state. Legal and policy debates surrounding the two initiatives show that the boundaries between the intimate and the public or between the family and the state (or the market) are continually negotiated in ways that either challenge or uphold historically specific moral orders. In the context of Indonesia, Arskal Salim (2008) argues, the boundary between the state and the “personal” is not fixed or natural, but is actively constructed and inscribed within the legal system. Salim demonstrates how legal reforms, particularly in areas related to family and morality, have increasingly incorporated religious norms into the secular legal framework. This increasingly porous boundary often materializes in the blurring of legal distinctions between what is deemed a punishable crime and what is treated as a mere human error which may be socially condemned yet not prosecuted. In debates surrounding the AILA judical review and the Family Resilience Bill, as well as throughout the proceedings, family and intimate life were relegated to the private domain in need of protection. Moreover, counternarratives to the proponents of these two initiatives have not been successful in teasing out the problem with such assumptions concerning the divide between the private and the public, which mapped onto the divides between women and men, and between family and the public (and the state). === [PDF page 127] === 127 In reality, domestic and private matters, family and intimate life, have always been areas of public concern. This is not limited to public opinion but also state intervention. Particularly with regards to law, MacKinnon (1987, p. 100) argues: For women the measure of intimacy has been the measure of the oppression. This is why feminism has had to explode the private. This is why feminism has seen the personal as the political. The private is the public for those for whom the personal is the political. In this sense, there is no private, either normatively or empirically.170 While, according to Michelle Zimbalist Rosaldo, the gendering of public and private explain the subordination of women across cultures (Rosaldo, 1974). The dichotomy between the private and the public has been central to feminist theories and politics, as Pateman (1989, p. 118) notes, “it is, ultimately, what the feminist movement is about.” To Pateman (1989), abolishing the boundary between public and private means more than just women entering public arenas typically belonging to men, but rather transformation of gender roles leading to the decoupling of sex differences (between women and men) from the division of home and public, of individual and collective, and personal and political. Such changes should manifest “ … in the organization of production, in what we mean by ‘work’ and in the practice of citizenship” (Pateman, 1989, p. 135). Even in the West, the assumed separation of private and public domain in the conceptualization of citizenship is fraught. Contary to the earlier conceptualization of citizenship (Turner, 1990), feminist scholarships, in particular, have shown that such a strict separation cannot be maintained. Chantal Mouffe (1992, p. 32) redefines the relationship between individual and citizen and private and public as follows: The distinction between private and public is maintained as is the distinction between individual and citizen, but these do not correspond to discrete spheres; every situation is an 170 Although MacKinnon’s approach to it may lead to more draconian measures which enforce notion of respectability, this statement conveyed the ties between intimacy and politics and the needs to “exploding” the private as the presumed division between the private and the public cannot be defended. === [PDF page 128] === 128 encounter between private and public because every enterprise is private while never immune from the public conditions prescribed by the principles of citizenship. Wants, choices, and decisions are private because they are the responsibility of each individual, but performances are public because they have to subscribe to the conditions specified by citizenship. The identities qua individual and qua citizen are preserved, and none is sacrificed to the other; they coexist in a permanent tension that can never be reconciled.... Between the logic of complete equivalence and the logic of pure difference, the experience of a radical and plural democracy should therefore consist in the recognition of the multiplicity of social logics along with the necessity of their articulation.171 There is always been tension between the individuals’ personal desires, choices, and decisions, but the way they act, publicly perform, is shaped by “conditins specified by citizenship” (Mouffe, 1992). Even when it comes to the intimate dimension of life (or even because it it), citizens are never free from politics, regulations, moral expectiations, and public scrutiny. Young (1990) criticizes the presupposed ideal of impartial, universal citizens in the dichotomy between public and private: Recent feminist analyses of the dichotomy between public and private in modern political theory imply that the ideal of the civic public as impartial and universal is itself suspect. Modern political theorists and politicians proclaimed the impartiality and generality of the public and at the same time quite consciously found it fitting that some persons, namely, women, nonwhites, and sometimes those without property, should be excluded from participation in that public. If this was not just a mistake, it suggests that the ideal of the civic public as expressing the general interest, the impartial point of view of reason, itself results in exclusion. By assuming that reason stands opposed to desire, affectivity, and the body, this conception of the civic public excludes bodily and affective aspects of human existence. In practice this assumption forces homogeneity upon the civic public, excluding from the public those individuals and groups that do not fit the model of the rational citizen capable of transcending body and sentiment. This exclusion has a twofold basis: the tendency to oppose reason and desire, and the association of these traits with kinds of persons … Even within the domestic realm, moreover, women must be dominated. Their dangerous, heterogeneous sexuality must be kept chaste and confined to marriage. Enforcing chastity on women will keep each family a separated unity, preventing the chaos and blood mingling that would be produced by illegitimate children (Young, 1990, pp. 109110). 171 Mouffe (1992) keeps the distinction between the private (personal desires, moral choices, individual responsibility) and the public (shared norms, political obligations), but she rejects the idea that they are separate. The personal is never purely private. === [PDF page 129] === 129 By defining the public in opposition to desire, affect, and the body, a disembodied ideal of reason was given privileged. In turn, those marked as closer to the body such as women and others deemed irrational or overly emotional are cast as unfit for the public (where access to full citizenship is granted) and pushed into the private realm. Women’s sexuality and those of gender and sexual non-conforming individuals are perceived as unruly and threatening. As such, they must be controlled through chastity and confinement to marriage to secure the family and prevent the supposed disorder of illegitimacy. While these initiatives failed and public discussions stalled, the questions at the heart of the debates remain: who has the authority to govern the family and intimate life? Should the problem of inequity and domination be adressed privately, through non-state collective action or state intervention? AILA Judicial Review Petition The 2016 judicial review petition submitted by the AILA to the Constitutional Court constitutes a moral project that potentially redraws the boundary between public and private life in governing intimacy and family life. Throughout the hearings, a kind of rationality was reproduced—one that renders sexuality within heterosexual marriage normal, protected, and moral, while all other forms of sexual expression as problematic, criminal, or pathological. While family law, including marriage law, governs the presumed private domain of family life, criminal law governs the rest. It defines and sanctions behaviors that deviate from dominant social norms, classifying such acts as crimes in order to deter citizens through mechanisms of punishment. In some cases, however, criminal law has both mirrored and promoted family law’s === [PDF page 130] === 130 purpose of upholding the family, such as criminalizing acts that are deemed as harmful to it. Sodomy law serves as a clear example. 172 Similarly, making adultery and prostitution illegal not only deters deviant sexual behaviour but also affirms marriage as the only legitimate site for enacting sexual desire and protects the family from the perceived dangers of illicit sexual acts. These legal measures work in tandem to define and defend the heterosexual conjugal family as a normative ideal. While marriage law determines who can marry whom and what constitutes a legitimate family, criminal law reinforces these definitions by punishing any deviation from it. For instance, although fornication (defined as consensual sex between unmarried adults outside marriage) is not explicitly criminalized, adultery which involved a married person is prohibited under the long existed Criminal Code. Marriage law grants recognition and extends state protections only to citizens engaging with relationships that reproduce and align with the heteronormative script, thus enshrining a specific form of intimacy and sexuality as the condition of citizenship. In parallel, criminal law converts deviance from that script into punishable harms: adultery statutes single out extramarital sex as a betrayal of the marital bonds while anti-sodomy provisions is primarily used to cast homosexuality as threats to the reproductive future of the family and, by extension, the nation’s future. Along with the prohibition on prostitution, these regulatory measures defend the notion that sex is private, productive, and non-commercial. This legal coupling reveals how heteronormativity is not simply reflected in law but actively materialized through it. Legal regimes do not simply respond to existing moral orders. Instead, they participate in the construction of moral orders. As 172 Sodomy laws often lack precise definitions but are generally interpreted to include acts deemed unnatural or immoral such as anal sex, oral sex and bestiality. While formally gender-neutral, these laws have been used primarily to target same-sex sexual behaviors and could not be applied to private heterosexual conduct. === [PDF page 131] === 131 such, these legal regimes discipline by granting or withholding recognition, making it essential to remain engaged in the ongoing work of either conforming and contesting the moral order. Together, these laws naturalize a heterosexual, monogamous, and reproductive relationships as the implicit criteria for national belonging, while rendering non-conforming subjects to the margin of society. This differentiation is not neutral. It serves to uphold a stratified system of social recognition in which heterosexual, conjugal, and legally sanctioned relationships are privileged as the normative form of intimacy. Other arrangements such as same-sex partnerships, non-marital cohabitation, or non-reproductive unions, are rendered socially deviant and legally vulnerable. As Boellstorff (2005) and Blackwood (2010) show in their ethnography of queer lives in Indonesia, these forms of intimacy often fall into a legal limbo where they are not formally illegal but are never granted legitimacy. This legal ambiguity reinforces broader social exclusions, as it allows the state to selectively deploy criminal law to police non-normative sexualities while shielding heteronormative family formations under the guise of privacy and virtues. In this way, the legal system does more than codify existing moral norms; it actively produces and sustains a hierarchical moral order by reinforcing them. By drawing lines between the criminal and the immoral, the state naturalizes a vision of proper intimacy rooted in heterosexual marriage and uses legal apparatuses to discipline those who fall outside it. To first understand the distinction between family law and criminal law provides an entry point to understand how the state regulates intimate life through legal institutions. Melissa Murray (2008) introduces the concept of an “interstitial space”, a legal and moral gray zone between marriage and crime, where sex is neither valorized (as those within marriage) nor criminalized, but simply permitted. In Indonesia, however, such a space remains fragile and deeply contested. === [PDF page 132] === 132 The AILA petition aimed to eliminate this ambiguity by proposing the criminalization of all non-marital sex, thereby collapsing any legal middle ground between normative and deviant sexuality. The petition exemplifies a broader effort to merge criminal law and family law in the governance of intimacy, seeking to create a rigid binary between legitimate (i.e., marital) and illegitimate (i.e., criminal) sexual behavior. Although the home is often seen as a private domain beyond the reach of the state, criminal law has historically intervened in the domestic sphere, particularly in cases of intimate partner violence and moral offenses. The AILA petition extends this logic by proposing an alignment between the family and criminal law. Under this framework, family law defines the normative boundaries of marriage, while criminal law enforces them by punishing behaviors that fall outside those boundaries. In effect, the petition sought to position heterosexual marriage as the only legitimate site of sexual expression. Through this legal strategy, the family becomes not just a protected institution but a normative ideal backed by the coercive force of the state, while non-marital intimacies are rendered both socially illegitimate and legally punishable. Marriage (or access to it) has long been treated as an essential component of citizenship, serving as a powerful symbol of one’s inclusion in or exclusion from the political community. At the same time, marriage has historically functioned as a mechanism of social control and discipline. It not only legitimates a particular model of intimate life but also demands conformity to it, stigmatizing those who deviate from it. In the Indonesian context, while sexual practices outside marriage have often drawn public scrutiny, not all forms of non-marital sexual behavior are regulated by law. Some fall into a legal grey area–neither explicitly criminalized nor formally recognized. The AILA petition, however, sought to collapse this interstitial space entirely by === [PDF page 133] === 133 criminalizing all non-marital sex. It proposed a legal regime in which intimate life must conform to a rigid marriage-crime binary rendering marriage the only lawful site for sexual expression and criminalizing everything outside of it. The current Criminal Code does not establish a strict binary that frames sexual conducts as either marital or criminal. In fact, extra-marital sex (zina) cannot be criminalized if it involves only consensual adults. This ambiguity complicates normative efforts to categorize sexual conduct strictly as either marital or deviant. Indeed, the existence of such unregulated spaces allows for forms of intimacy that resist the dominant marital-reproductive ideal. Unsurprisingly, this legal ambiguity is often viewed with suspicion, as it threatens to destabilize existing moral order and dominant categories of gender and sexuality. Constitutional Court Judge, I Dewa Gede Palguna, questions the petition: When we talk about criminal law, we are talking about public law–about how public law governs the relationship between the state and its citizens, between the state and individuals. At a certain point, a fundamental issue always arises … The core question, which is not easy to answer, is: where exactly is the boundary of the state? Where should the state stop, so that its interference does not go too far into the private lives of its citizens?173 Public debate surrounding the AILA proposal reflected this moral polarization. Supporters argued that criminalizing extra-marital and same-sex sexual acts was necessary to protect the sanctity of the family and shield children from moral decay. These arguments often drew on affective registers by invoking parental grief, youth vulnerability, and divine punishment as tools of persuasion. Opponents, however, emphasized the dangers of state overreach and the erosion of civil liberties. 173 “kalau kita berbicara mengenai hukum pidana, kita berbicara tentang hukum publik, bicara tentang hukum publik mengatur hubungan state, warga negara, state dan individu. Di situ akan selalu timbul persoalan mendasar … persoalan mendasar pertanyaan pokok yang tidak gampang dijawab adalah di mana sebenarnya batas negara? Di mana negara harus stop terhadap campur tangannya yang jangan sampai terlalu jauh dalam kehidupan pribadi warga negara” (MKRI transcript, 30 August 2016, p. 16). === [PDF page 134] === 134 Feminist groups, human rights activists, legal scholars, and civil society coalitions criticized the proposal as a direct threat to privacy, bodily autonomy, and constitutional guarantees of human rights. They argued that the KUHP revision would not only criminalize intimacy but undermine the very principles of citizenship. By seeking to criminalize homosexuality explicitly, AILA did not aim to render subjects who do not conform to heteronormative family invisible. Rather, it aimed to affix them as recognizably deviant, therefore subjecting them to discipline, punishment, and surveillance. What is at stake here is not merely the scope of whose sexuality or which sexual act gets considered as a crime, but the very question posed by Justice Palguna: Where does the authority of the state end, and what is the consequence of calling it in? The AILA petition illustrates how criminal law can be conscripted into projects of moral citizenship by constructing a hierarchy of sexual respectability where legal recognition is tied to heterosexual marriage, and everything outside it are rendered suspect. Such projects do more than punish, they define who belongs, who deserves protection, and who is deemed a threat to the nation. Family Resilience Bill Critics argue that the Family Resilience Bill serves as a legal mechanism for state control over private family life and questions the state agenda behind the proposed regulation. 174 Nurul 174 Nurul Arifin, a legislator from the Golkar Party, described the bill as indoctrination aimed at ensuring family obedience to state-defined norms. She warned that it establishes a family monitoring body, which would function as a surveillance institution at the local neighborhood level, extending state oversight into intimate domestic spaces. "This is extreme," she remarked. “Many ineffective government bodies have been abolished, yet now they propose a new institution to control families. What exactly is the agenda here?” Bhwana, P. G. (2020, February 20). Golkar Withdraws Support for Family Resilience Bill. Tempo. https://en.tempo.co/read/1309956/golkar-withdraws-supportfor-family-resilience-bill. === [PDF page 135] === 135 Arifin of Golkar Party, for example, also voiced strong objections, arguing that the bill represented unwarranted state intrusion into private family life. She criticized the bill’s normative assumptions, stating, “We are a heterogeneous society that cannot possibly be uniform, especially regarding household affairs. Each family has its own way of organizing its household.” 175 She specifically pointed to Article 16, which obliges family members to obey religious commands and demonstrate “good morals.” 176 Such provision inferred that any family that failed to comply with the criteria would be deemed inferior. Another politician, Sulaeman M. Hamzah (Nasdem Party) also voiced concerns that certain provisions would give the state leeway to insert itself into disputes that could otherwise be settled internally among members of a family.” 177 Commenting on the Bill proposal, lawyer Feri Amsari called the bill “absurd” for subjecting private household arrangements to statutory control, arguing that “there are households with a working wife and a stay-at-home husband; such matters are not for the state to dictate.”178 While the 2017 draft limited itself to programmatic guidance, the 2020 bill folds surveillance technologies and punitive measures into a single regulation. The 2020 draft institutionalizes an elaborate government body empowered to gather granular household data, accredit premarital counselling, and police “deviant” sexual practices through criminal sanctions and rehabilitation mandates. The national family database becomes both a knowledge repository and a tool for sanctioning non-compliant citizens, particularly those who fall outside the 175 Jakarta Globe. (2020, November 24). The House Drops a Bill That Will Require Indonesians to Turn in Gay Family Members. Jakarta Globe. https://jakartaglobe.id/news/the-house-drops-a-bill-that-will-require-indonesiansto-turn-in-gay-family-members 176 Gumelar, G. (2020, November 27). House nixes family resilience bill. The Jakarta Post. https://www.thejakartapost.com/paper/2020/11/26/house-nixes-family-resilience-bill.html 177 Ibid. 178 Antara News. (2020, February 19). RUU Ketahanan Keluarga, Peneliti: Aneh sampai masuk ke ruang privat. Antara News. https://www.antaranews.com/berita/1306974/ruu-ketahanan-keluarga-peneliti-aneh-sampai-masuk-keruang-privat. === [PDF page 136] === 136 heteronormative ideals. In so doing, the proposed bill centers the heterosexual nuclear family as the normative ideal, a reference point, upon which the distribution of citizenship rights, entitlements, and punitive measures are based. Translating Moral Anxiety The law does not simply mirror cultural ideals but also constructs them. Clifford Geertz’s (1983) concept of “imagining the real” underscores this dynamic. 179 Matters of the social world must be translated into a form the legal system can recognize, and thus, can process, and adjudicate. What appears to be a neutral recounting of “what happened” is in fact a conversion of lived events, relationships, and experiences into legally intelligible categories. The law does not simply mirror reality; rather, it participate in the construction of it through its distinctive vocabulary, concepts, and procedures. In this sense, a “fact” is never a raw fact but already a “rendering”—a normative translation shaped by what the legal system is capable of seeing and saying (Geertz, 1983). Although it is presented as neutral and objective, of concerning only questions of empirical facts, it always engaged in its techniques a work of interpreting and translating. Similarly, Mary Ann Glendon (1987) argues that law serves as a cultural narrative, offering insight into “who we are, where we came from, and where we are going.” This is especially true 179 “The rendering of fact so that lawyers can plead it, judges can hear it, and juries can settle it is just that, a rendering … the ‘law’ side of things is not a bounded set of norms, rules, principles, values, or whatever from which jural responses to distilled events can be drawn, but part of a distinctive manner of imagining the real. At base, it is not what happened, but what happens, that law sees; and if law differs, from this place to that, this time to that, this people to that, what it sees does as well. Rather than conceiving of a legal system, our own or any other, as divided between trouble over what is right and trouble over what is so … and of ‘juristic technique,’ our own or any other, as a matter of squaring ethical decisions responding to the what is right sort with empirical determinations responding to the what is so sort, it would seem better—more ‘realistic,’ if I may say so—to see such systems as describing the world and what goes on in it in explicitly judgmatical terms and such ‘technique’ as an organized effort to make the description correct. The legal representation of fact is normative from the start… The problem it raises is how that representation is itself to be represented” (Geertz, 1983, pp. 173-174). === [PDF page 137] === 137 in civil laws countries. 180 As Mala Htun (2003) observes, in civil laws countries, civil and criminal codes carry a strong ethical dimension. 181 They embody ideas and values that become central to debates about legal reform. Consequently, discussions about legal reform in such contexts are deeply intertwined with cultural value systems, making the evolution of law as much about culture as about governance. AILA Judicial Review Petition Court proceedings are ideal sites to observe how moral citizenship is produced within which petitioners and their counsel translate intimate grievances into the legal language of court, while judges responded by weaving various reasonings with affective rhetorics about national virtue, honour, and family values at the center of the debates. The AILA judicial review petition illustrates how moral anxieties about sexuality, gender, and the heteronormative family are transformed into constitutional claims through a juridical process that demands the translation of social sentiment into legal argument. No matter how much the petitioners were animated by what they perceived as a cultural and moral crisis (the erosion of traditional family values) they are required to frame these concerns into claims of legal injury that fall within the Court’s jurisdiction. 180 A civil law country is defines as “a nation that follows a legal system based on a comprehensive written set of laws covering various areas such as tax law, criminal law, and commercial law, with judges playing an active role in interpreting and applying these laws. Apart from the British common law tradition, civil law is the basis for most of legal systems. It includes groups of countries with common colonial past and/or language. Indonesia, for example, retain the civil law legal system from the Dutch colonial period (Hay, 2001). 181 In Sex and the State (2003), Mala Htun examines the family laws in three Latin American democracies with a civil law tradition: Argentina, Brazil, and Chile. Rather than straightforward connection between democracy and access to rights, Mala Htun (2003) argues that it is issues networks (elite coalitions of lawyers, feminist activists, doctors, legislators, and state officials) and how these elite issue networks could hook into state institutions that determine whether democratic governments may adopt more equalizing policies in family laws, particularly, in matters of divorce, abortion, and gender equality. === [PDF page 138] === 138 Legal institutions like the Constitutional Court do not simply adjudicate between conflicting interests. They act as filtering mechanisms, determining which kinds of harms or injuries can be rendered legible within the existing legal system. They also demarcate the boundaries of public morality and constitutional order, shaping who counts as a legitimate subject of law, which claims of harms are legible, and what forms of remedy can be pursued. 182 During the hearing process, judges scrutinized the empirical validity of expert claims, often questioning the evidentiary basis of testimony that veered into moralistic sermons and the compatibility of arguments with the problems at hand. In the case of AILA judicial review petition, in line with Constitutional Court Regulation No. 6/2005, the Court insisted on maintaining the distinction between moral grievance and constitutional harm. Judge I Dewa Gede Palguna, for example, reasserted its institutional limits. Palguna warned against asking the Court to go beyond its constitutional role by becoming a positive legislator (one that drafts or enacts new laws) emphasizing instead the Court’s designated function as a negative legislator, which reviews and nullifies laws found unconstitutional: Do not ask the Court to become a positive legislator; do not ask the Court to become a lawmaker (Jangan meminta Mahkamah untuk menjadi positif legislator, jangan meminta Mahkamah untuk menjadi pembuat undang-undang].”183 This statement reaffirms the Court’s resistance to assuming a lawmaking role under the pressure of petitioners’ populist moral claims, insisting instead on resorting to restrained and procedural 182 In this way, as Margot Canaday (2009) shows in the U.S. context and Carl Stychin (2003) elsewhere, law participates in the making of moral citizenship—not simply by punishing certain acts, but by defining who belongs within the moral imaginary of the nation. 183 MKRI transcript, 07 June 2016, p. 7. === [PDF page 139] === 139 interpretation of its mandate. As stipulated in Law No. 24 of 2003, five primary mandates of the constitutional court are as follow: to conduct judicial reviews; to settle conflicts between key state institutions; to dissolve political parties found in violation of certain regulations; to resolve electoral disputes; and to verify whether the president and/or vice president truly acted in contravention of the constitution if so accused by parliament. Such a restriction is said to prevent the politicization of the Court and to maintain the balance between executive, legislative, and judicial institutions. Nevertheless, the Court often tests these boundaries and its politicization appears inevitable (Butt & Parsons, 2014; Mietzner, 2010). The Court’s final decision, issued on 14 December 2017, denied the petition on the basis of procedural and jurisdictional limitations. The ruling, supported by five concurring opinions and challenged by four dissents, held that any broadening of criminal provisions must originate in the legislature.184 Crucially, the majority drew a clear distinction between moral harm and constitutional injury, thereby refusing to collapse sin into crime. However, their reasoning focused on form, standing, and jurisdiction, not the substantive morality of the petitioners’ claims.185 Dissenting judges, particularly Anwar Usman, advanced a different constitutional vision, arguing that upholding Pancasila morality warranted a more proactive judicial role. His dissent illustrates the persistent entanglement of religious authority and state power in Indonesia’s legal culture. Judges like Palguna and Maria Farida Indrati, in contrast, emphasized that the Court must not substitute popular or religious sentiment for legal standards, especially when no demonstrable constitutional injury or rights violation had been established. 184 Final ruling (putusan) of Constitutional Court, December 14, 2017; dissenting: Justice Arief Hidayat, Anwar Usman, Aswanto, Wahiduddin Adams. 185 The decision reaffirmed the separation of powers enshrined in the 1945 Constitution (Butt, 2019). === [PDF page 140] === 140 Though the petition was denied, the case laid bare deep fissures within Indonesia’s constitutional jurisprudence. It revealed the Court as a legal authority and a cultural institution— tasked with mediating between the rule of law and the moral anxieties of the broader polity (Lev, 2000). The split judgment highlighted unresolved tensions between secular constitutionalism and Islamic moral populism. While the majority upheld a proceduralist stance, the dissenters called for greater judicial activism in protecting moral values rooted in Pancasila. Notably, the Court avoided engaging with the human rights dimensions of the case, sidestepping any opportunity to affirm protections for sexual minorities. In doing so, it left open the possibility of future legislative or social backlash against queer communities. In the early hearings, the petitioners were compelled to establish their legal standing by articulating how they, as individuals or representatives of interest groups, were harmed by the current formulation of the Criminal Code (KUHP). They had to argue that the failure to criminalize certain consensual sexual constituted a constitutional injury to themselves and the nation. The AILA judicial petition unfolded at a moment of intense moral anxiety which often cited as a defining episode moral panic (Wieringa, 2019; Wijaya, 2019). As Stanley Cohen (2011) explains, moral panics arise when a group is cast as a threat to social values, leading to exaggerated portrayals and calls for control by “socially accredited experts.” AILA capitalized on this moment by constructing the issue not merely as a legal matter, but as a moral and national crisis. They portrayed the existing criminal code (particularly Articles 284, 285, and and 292) as inadequate for protecting Indonesia from the dangers of moral decline, child endangerment, and cultural decay. === [PDF page 141] === 141 The Court processes cases not in a vacuum, they relate the details of each case to events outside the courtroom. The courts are thus responsible for determining the significance of events. With regard to questions about science and expertise, the courts make reference to rules of evidence and bodies of law, while bringing them to bear upon the unique circumstances of a case at hand. Courts also express and rely upon conventional understandings of what counts as expert, scientific and legal knowledge. 186 These are performative as well as interpretative relations. Expert witnesses supply medical or theological “facts” that stabilize these moral judgments. To translate their claims into the language of constitutional injury, petitioners mobilized a panel of expert witnesses including a psychiatrist, criminologists, and Islamic jurists who rearticulated moral concern as scientific fact. 187 The petitioners’ use of expert witnesses reveals a strategic deployment of “scientific” discourse to lend legitimacy to moral arguments. Psychiatrist Dadang Hawari, for instance, testified that homosexuality was a form of psychological deviance caused by environmental factors like trauma and inadequate parenting. While acknowledging that the APA had declassified homosexuality as a mental disorder in 1973, he dismissed the decision as politically motivated and claimed Indonesian psychiatry was not bound by Western standards: they [APA] said that this [non heterosexual sexualities] is not an illness, just sexual orientation. Normal [sexual] orientation is heterosexual. Now, [according to APA] homo looks like normal. They have different perception.” He went even further by asserting that homosexuality could 186 According to the Constitutional Court Regulation No.6/PMK/2005 on the Procedures of Judicial Review of Law Article 1 No 13. Expert’s explanation is descriptive elucidation of an expert, who, based on his/her educational background and experience, has an exceptional expertise and profound knowledge in regard to the petition, in the forms of both scientific and technical opinions, or other particular opinions pertaining to any required evidence or fact for the purpose of petition examination; In contrast to witness testimony that emphasize individuals’ experience, According to Article 1 No 14. Witness testimony is a testimonial description given by someone in the court concerning an event or incident, which he/she heard, saw and/or experienced. According to Article 22, Experts can be appointed by the Petitioner, the President/Government, the House of Representatives, the Regional Representatives Council, other Related Parties, or summoned on the order of the Court. Have no conflict of interest with the subject matter of the case and object under examination. Their identities, biography, expertise, and their readiness to be taken under oath (in compliance with their respective religions) have to be examined by the court. 187 The term “expert” usually denotes an agent (a person or professional body) of a modern social institution accredited with specialized knowledge—it confer authority and credibility. === [PDF page 142] === 142 (and should) be cured. He argued that childhood trauma, parenting, and other environmental factors may influence homosexual behavior, instead of genetic factor. 188 Musni Umar emphasized how adultery rape and sexual immorality destroy the moral of society and should be considered as crimes: Constitutionally the entire Indonesian nation must be protected [from free sex]… adultery, rape and sexual immorality. Sociologically they have negative impacts on society, not only do they destroy the morals of society, but also endanger and threaten the integrity of society and the nation. Adultery, rape, and obscenity must be acknowledged as crimes against humanity. Arguing for the criminalization of sexual practices outside a legal marriage, Mudzakkir, an expert in criminal law said: Everyone has the right to form a family and reproduce through a legal marriage which means the state--the government--has an obligation to protect a legal marriage. Therefore, it is imperative that all forms of deviation from marriage are to be prohibited both in administrative law and in criminal law. In the AILA case, maternal subjectivity was central. Petitioners, many of whom presented themselves as mothers, cast their concern as rooted not in ideological but in affective rhetorics concerning the family (particularly children) and the nation. This gendered moral authority added emotional weight to their claims. Their testimonies were laden with grief, fear, and protective instincts. The lead petitioners in the AILA case who are predominantly women leveraged their gendered roles as mothers and caretakers of the nation to give moral urgency to the legal proceedings. Maternal subjectivity operated here as a dual form of authority: it allowed petitioners to articulate injury on behalf of others (children, families, the nation), while simultaneously presenting themselves as morally unassailable. The petitioners argued that existing laws were 188 MKRI transcript, 1 August 2016. === [PDF page 143] === 143 inadequate for safeguarding both the family and the nation. They asserted that family law and social norms were insufficient to police particular sexual acts that, in their view, posed existential threats to the nation’s moral order. By invoking children as the vulnerable “future generation” and the sanctity of the family, the petitioners framed non-marital and same-sex relations as public safety concerns, thereby justifying the need for criminal law. Through this register, they positioned themselves as guardians of future generations and demanded that the state act in defense of public virtue. This affective mode of address both personalized and nationalized the issue, extending individual anxiety into a collective threat. Both the petitioners and the judges often invoked religious reasonings in their arguments. Judge Anwar Usman, for instance, cited the Qur’anic injunction wala taqrabu l-zinā (“do not even approach adultery”) to emphasize the severity of extra-marital sex.189 Petitioners explicitly argued that criminal law should reflect divine law. However, when pressed by the Court, they shifted their rhetoric from religious doctrine to secular concerns: child protection, national security, and public health. This move illustrates the fluid boundary between theological morality and legal admissibility in Indonesia’s constitutional system, and the Court’s role in filtering such claims through a procedural lens. The Indonesian Ulema Council (MUI) also testified, condemning zina and asserting that the laws should be made in line with Islamic laws. Citizens are subject to multiple overlapping moral authorities: the state itself, religious institutions (God), adat (customs), and women. Each claims legitimacy in defining proper gender roles, family structures, and acceptable intimate conduct. Religious institutions—particularly those grounded in Islam—hold significant moral authority. They frame questions of gender, sexuality, 189 MKRI transcript, 19 July 2016. === [PDF page 144] === 144 and family life as matters of divine will rather than social convention. As Blackburn (2008) notes, the moral regulation of women’s roles in Indonesia often draws on Islamic teachings that position domesticity and motherhood as divinely sanctioned duties. This religious framing transforms gender norms into moral imperatives, positioning deviation not merely as social failure but as a violation of sacred order. Alongside maternal and religious appeals, petitioners deployed nationalist and decolonial rhetoric to frame their demands. They argued that extra-marital sex and homosexuality are neither recognized nor accepted in Indonesia and that the current Criminal Code that does not contain any regulation on the matters is obsolete as it is inherited from Dutch colonial rule. 190 The law was no longer appropriate as it does not reflect Pancasila and Constitution: “KUHP disusun oleh para ahli hukum Belanda yang hidup ratusan tahun lampau.”191 This appeal positioned their claims as moral as they are framed as a project of cultural purification and national self-determination. Mirroring the East and West contrast, which framed the East as morally and spiritually superor (Chatterjee, 1989), any expression of sexualities outside of heterosexual marriage were cast as budaya asing (foreign cultures), corrupting influences threatening the moral fabric of the nation. The petitioners’ alignment with nationalist ideals and anticolonial rhetoric also lent their demands a sense of historical progress and ideological urgency. In short, the AILA judicial review underscores how the governance of family and intimate life in Indonesia is mediated through legal institutions. Although the petition failed, it encouraged cross-institutional policing of “proper” sexuality, and made visible the cultural script which 190 The KUHP is an amalgam of Wetboek van Strafrecht (1867) and Strafwet voor Inlanders (1872), unified in 1918 (Wetboek van Strafwet) and subsequently nationalised by Government Regulations No. 1 of 1945 and Government Regulations No. 73 of 1957 (Cribb 2010). 191 MKRI transcript, 07 June 2016, p. 2. === [PDF page 145] === 145 render.192 The case has reaffirmed the contested and contingent status of heteronormative family as the basis for the nationl moral order and the moral infrastructure governing the citizens in contemporary Indonesia. Family Resilience Bill The binding of family with constitutional values also became the primary argument in the Family Resilience Bill proposal. It delineates how the family is defined in parallel to how the state is imagined. The Constitution provides a legal foundation that can be interpreted both to support and to critique the proposed Family Resilience Bill. Proponents of the Bill argue that several constitutional articles mandate the state to promote and protect family life, thereby justifying the Bill’s introduction. For instance, Article 28B(1) of the Constitution affirms every person’s right to form a family and continue their lineage through legal marriage. This provision is often cited as evidence that family resilience is a constitutional imperative, warranting comprehensive legal regulation to uphold the sanctity and sustainability of the family unit. Article 28B(2), which asserts every child’s right to survival, growth, development, and protection from violence and discrimination, further strengthens this position by highlighting the state’s duty to ensure child welfare within the familial framework. Articles 28C(1) and 28C(2) are also invoked to justify the Bill’s developmentalist agenda. These clauses guarantee the right to self-development through access to education, science, technology, and cultural resources, and emphasize collective participation in building society and the state. The Family Resilience Bill aligns itself with these aims by promoting educational interventions, moral guidance, and family-centered welfare 192 The circulation of new KUHP drafts containing expansive morality provisions suggests that the battle over sexual citizenship is far from over. === [PDF page 146] === 146 programs. Likewise, Article 28G(1), which ensures protection of personal and family dignity, property, and security from threats, is used to validate the Bill’s protective mechanisms. Supporters argue that legal safeguards (e.g., counseling mandates) are necessary to shield families from moral and domestic threats. Article 28H(1), which guarantees the right to physical and spiritual wellbeing, adequate housing, a healthy environment, and healthcare, is interpreted as reinforcing the Bill’s aim to ensure families have access to basic needs, thereby positioning family resilience as integral to national welfare. These very same constitutional provisions, however, can also be read as grounds for opposing the Bill. While Article 28B(1) guarantees the right to form a family, the Bill’s narrow definition of family which centered on heteronormative, patriarchal marriage risks excluding diverse family formations and marginalizing those who do not conform to traditional norms. Rather than protecting the right to family life, the Bill may curtail it by imposing rigid legal standards on who qualifies as a legitimate family. Article 28C’s emphasis on self-development and collective advancement may also be compromised by the Bill’s moral framework, which restricts individual autonomy, particularly for women outside the normative family arrangements and LGBT individuals, by enforcing traditional gender roles and curtailing their agency. Furthermore, while Article 28G (1) upholds the right to personal and family protection, the bill’s surveillance measures be seen as infringing on constitutional guarantee of security and freedom from coercion for citizens. Critics argue that instead of protecting dignity and autonomy, the bill introduces mechanisms of moral governance that potentially expose them to intrusive monitoring. Finally, Article 28H (1)’s promise of a prosperous life may be undermined by the bill’s disproportionate focus on moral-spiritual well-being at the expense of addressing material === [PDF page 147] === 147 inequalities, such as access to decent housing, economic security, or comprehensive healthcare. While the Family Resilience Bill draws legitimacy from the constitutional mandate to support and protect families, its implementation risks violating the very rights it purports to uphold. The Family Resilience Bill includes provisions targeting LGBT groups, categorizing homosexuality, sadism, masochism, and incest as “sexual deviations.” The bill mandates that individuals engaging in such behaviors must report themselves or be reported by family members to government-appointed institutions for rehabilitation. The bill was said as aiming to uphold Pancasila by, among others, prohibiting sexual deviances. However, as Sodik Mujahid, a Golkar politician, reportedly stated, it raised questions on whether homosexual acts should be considered private or national matters. 193 The academic manuscript (naskah akademik) frames the bill as a response to “the threat of family disintegration caused by globalization, technological advancement, modern lifestyles, and unregulated information flows.”194 Such language constructs the family as an object of urgent national repair and vulnerable to moral corruption. Proponents frame the Bill as filling legal gaps and harmonizing fragmented family regulations, however, certain provisions reveal a broader project of moral governance. It mandates state interventions into the intimate domain of the household, prescribes rigid patriarchal gender roles, and normalizes heterosexuality as the moral and legal ideal. For instance, Article 25 of the 2020 draft states that “the husband is the head of 193 “Ini yang menjadi diskusi kita. Apakah homoseksual privat atau tidak? Ketika masif, mengganggu bangsa atau tidak? Mengganggu umat manusia tidak? Kompas Cyber Media. (2020, February 20). Ketentuan Kontroversial dalam RUU Ketahanan Keluarga Pasal Per Pasal Halaman all. KOMPAS.com. https://nasional.kompas.com/read/2020/02/20/10583991/ketentuan-kontroversial-dalam-ruu-ketahanan-keluargapasal-per-pasal 194 “[a]ncaman disintegrasi keluarga akibat globalisasi, kemajuan teknologi, gaya hidup modern, dan arus informasi yang tidak terkendali.” Tim Penyusun RUU Ketahanan Keluarga. 2020. “Naskah Akademik Rancangan UndangUndang Tentang Ketahanan Keluarga.” === [PDF page 148] === 148 the family and the wife is the homemaker,” while Article 33 proposes the establishment of staterun counseling centers to “rehabilitate” individuals with “sexual deviations,” including homosexuality. In the parliamentary sessions, lawmakers invoked this language of threat and decline. As one legislator declared, “There are many sexual deviations now tolerated in the name of human rights… we must not allow this to damage the next generation.” 195 Couched in the language of resilience and national development, the Family Resilience Bill elevates the heterosexual nuclear family as moral cornerstone, re-inscribes patriarchal gender roles, and pathologizes non-normative sexualities. The legal framework of the state becomes complicit in narrowing the boundaries of who counts as a full citizen, and under what moral terms. In Indonesia, the discourse of family resilience has increasingly been shaped by a convergence of religious, legal, and developmental logics. The Ministry of Women’s Empowerment and Child Protection (PPPA) defines family resilience as the capacity of families to adapt to change, overcome adversity, and protect themselves from internal and external threats. This concept has been institutionalized through state frameworks such as the 2016 Family Resilience Development Module, which outlines five key indicators: mutual service among family members, strong marital bonds, parental discipline and creativity, affectionate household leadership, and respectful, obedient children. These indicators reflect not only normative ideals of family life but also the broader view that national development is inseparable from the quality of family structures. 195 “Banyak penyimpangan seksual yang sekarang dibiarkan atas nama HAM... ini tidak boleh dibiarkan merusak generasi bangsa.” Amindoni, A. (2020, February 21). Polemik RUU Ketahanan Keluarga: “Negara masuk ke kamar tidur warga negara” dan “pelanggengan budaya patriarki.” BBC News Indonesia. https://www.bbc.com/indonesia/indonesia-51571135 === [PDF page 149] === 149 The link between family resilience and national development has long been a central tenet of Indonesian governance. The idea of family resilience is deeply embedded in societal values, as seen in popular concepts such as the “keluarga sakinah” (peaceful family), “keluarga sejahtera dan bahagia” (prosperous and happy family), and “keluarga harmonis” (harmonious family). These notions emphasize domestic virtues such as peace, order, and spiritual commitment, which are seen as essential to a stable society. Law No. 52 of 2009 on Family Development and Population Growth explicitly defines a “qualified family” as one formed through legal marriage and characterized by prosperity, health, independence, responsibility, harmony, and religious devotion. Through such legal codification, the family becomes both a target and a vehicle of stateled moral and developmental projects. The Family Resilience Bill is presented by its proponents as a bulwark against the perceived erosion of traditional family values. Rooted in the idea that the family constitutes the smallest and, yet, a foundational unit of society, the bill situates family resilience as the cornerstone of achieving national resilience. This link is made explicit in the Bill’s tagline—“Keluarga Kuat, Negara Kuat” (“Strong Families Make a Strong Nation”)—which is prominently featured in its academic manuscript (naskah akademik).196 During the Panitia Kerja (Working Committee) meeting session on 16 November 2020, the Legislative Body’s team of experts presented their review of the Bill draft. They argued that a new legal framework was urgently needed due to two main considerations: First, they emphasized that the family, as the smallest yet most fundamental unit of society, serves as the cornerstone of national development and a critical pillar of national resilience. Thus, revealing the invisible cultural script that binds family to nationhood. In their 196 Tim Penyusun RUU Ketahanan Keluarga. 2020. “Naskah Akademik Rancangan Undang-Undang Tentang Ketahanan Keluarga.”, p. 1. === [PDF page 150] === 150 view, globalization has led to a deterioration of traditional family values and social cohesion, making families increasingly vulnerable. As such, the expert team proposed that a national family resilience policy be established as a key element of development, one that centers the protection and interests of the family. Second, the experts pointed out that existing legislation addressing family issues remained fragmented and incomplete. They argued that current laws did not adequately meet the evolving legal needs of Indonesian society and that a comprehensive regulation dedicated specifically to family resilience was required. However, members of the Working Committeee expressed reservations about the Bill's urgency and necessity. Several legislators noted that issues related to family well-being were already addressed under Law No. 10/1992 on Population Development and the Development of Prosperous Families. Rather than introducing an entirely new law, they suggested comparing the draft directly with existing legislation to assess whether it added value or merely duplicated existing regulatory instruments. Indeed, state governing policies and practices, including development policies, are already built upon heteronormative assumptions about family and intimate lives. The Working Committee also raised concerns about the extent of state involvement in family matters, particularly regarding conflict resolution and mediation, which are often relied on community and customary practices. They called for greater clarity on the bill's conceptual and practical foundations. In response, the bill’s proponents reaffirmed the importance of state responsibility in addressing family-related issues. Rather than intruding into private life, they present the bill’s intervention on citizens’ family and intimate lives as the state fulfilling constitutional mandate and public obligations to protect the institution of (heteronormative) family. Proponents of the bill further argued that national progress must begin at the level of the === [PDF page 151] === 151 family, and that Law No. 52/2009 on Population Development and Family Development lacked the detailed provisions necessary to reinforce family resilience amid “modern” challenges. They also called for strengthening family-related data systems, particularly in collaboration with BKKBN, to ensure inclusive access to parenting information and social services. To clarify its legal positioning, the proponents claimed that the bill should be treated as a lex specialis complementing Law No. 52/2009, offering more specific interventions at the upstream or preventive level. They stressed that concerns about legal overlap had been addressed through detailed comparative legal reviews. 197 In their view, they argued that the bill would empower families to be independent and adaptive, recognizing their dynamic conditions and needs and circumventing the debates on the fact that the Bill was built on heteronormative assumptions of a presumed universal family model and risk excluding other family arrangements or kinship ties and citizens whose intimate lives cannot be accommodated by such assumptions. This emphasis on moral regulation and hetero-patriarchal norms is further evident in the proposed Family Resilience Bill, which reframes earlier developmental language into a rhetoric of akhlak (moral character) and susila (virtue). As Menchik (2014) notes, this reflects a broader project of “godly nationalism” rooted in what he calls “productive intolerance.” The Bill gender clauses position the father as provider and the mother as caregiver, reviving the “Happy Family” model which confines women’s citizenship to the domestic sphere while aligning men’s with public productivity. In this way, the family becomes what Bourdieu (1996) describes as a realized category of state ideology that is naturalized through law, normalized through bureaucracy, and internalized through counseling. 197 Minutes of the Working Committee Meeting of the Legislative Body for the Harmonization, Refinement, and Finalization of the Concept of the Family Resilience Bill, dated 16 November 2020. === [PDF page 152] === 152 Indeed, institutions such as courts, legislative bodies, and ministries do not merely mirror existing cultural norms, they actively produce them (Stychin 2003). Through policies that reward heteronormativity and penalize non-normative arrangements, the Indonesian legal regime constructs a stratified citizenship wherein access to welfare, protection, and legitimacy depends on one’s alignment with state-sanctioned forms of intimacy. However, subjects are never simply passive recipients of power (Abu-Lughod 1998; Mahmood 2005). Rather, they engage, reinterpret, and sometimes resist the dominant moral frameworks imposed upon them. The intersection of religious authority and legal regulation in Indonesian family governance exemplifies a mode of moral citizenship that simultaneously invokes national development goals and religious virtue. Government programs such as pre-marital counseling (bimbingan perkawinan), now mandated under Circular Letter No. 02 of 2024 and coordinated by six ministries, are presented as preventative tools to ensure marital success and national stability. They reinforce a narrow, normative vision of family life. Public awareness campaigns, religious sermons, and institutional reforms are part of a state project that equates a prosperous future with heteronormative households. As Indonesia confronts rising rates of divorce, child marriage, and family instability, it is clear that family resilience has become a central site for negotiating the moral, legal, and political boundaries of citizenship. Whether these interventions enable greater well-being or impose new forms of control depends on how resilience is defined—and whose families are deemed worth protecting. Proponents of the Family Resilience Bill cited socioeconomic and demographic challenges such as mortality rates, poor living conditions, increasing divorce rates, and child welfare as the justification for the bill proposal. The legal foundation for family resilience policies === [PDF page 153] === 153 in Indonesia is primarily derived from the 1945 Constitution of the Republic of Indonesia (Undang-Undang Dasar Negara Republik Indonesia Tahun 1945) and Law No. 52 of 2009 on Population Development and Family Planning. One of the key justifications for the proposed Family Resilience Bill is the concept of family development, as outlined in Law No. 52 of 2009 on Population Development and Family Development, which is perceived as central to national development. However, the 2009 law places greater emphasis on population development, rendering its provisions on family development relatively limited in scope—an insufficiency cited by proponents of the new bill. Among the 63 articles contained in the law, only Articles 47 and 48 (Chapter VII of Law No. 52 of 2009) explicitly discuss the issue of family development. These articles require the central and regional governments to formulate policies that promote family resilience and welfare to help families fulfill their roles effectively. Nonetheless, the law lacks a clear definition or operational framework for what it means to “promote family resilience,” a gap that the proposed bill seeks to address.198 Chapter Summary: Citizenship, Identity, and Morality Citizenship in Indonesia is increasingly contingent upon one’s ability to perform heteronormative gender and sexual roles. State recognition, welfare access, and legal protection are distributed not solely on the basis of legal status, but according to conformity to normative 198 These policies may encompass a wide range of initiatives, including efforts to improve the well-being of children, adolescents, and the elderly; empower vulnerable families; enhance the family environment; expand access to economic resources; and prioritize poverty alleviation—particularly for women-headed households. The implementation of these initiatives will be further governed by ministerial regulations issued by the relevant authorities. === [PDF page 154] === 154 scripts of family and morality. The “good citizen” is imagined as married, reproductive, and morally upright figure embodied in tropes like the ibu rumah tangga (housewife) and perempuan pelindung bangsa (woman as protector of the nation) (Suryakusuma 1996, 2011). These gendered moral figures are not neutral; they serve as anchors through which the state legitimizes their governance practice over intimate life. The AILA judicial review petition exemplifies a broader struggle in Indonesia over the moral infrastructure of citizenship. At its core, the AILA judicial review petition attempted to render a wide array of consensual sexual behaviors into crimes rather than violations of religious or social norms. Petitioners framed visibility and occurrence of extramarital and same-sex acts as a sign of national moral decay and the erosion of the heterosexual nuclear family which in turn would threaten the nation. Similarly, the Family Resilience Bill explicitly frames those who fall outside the bound of heteronormative family as threats to national stability. 199 The legal limbo on consensual extra-marital heterosexual and homosexual acts in the current Criminal Code were what the AILA petitioners sought to revise. While Article 284 of the Criminal Code prohibits adultery, it does not criminalize extramarital sex between consenting adults; Article 285 also only concerns heterosexual sex without consent; Article 292, contrary to the petitioners’ demand, only punishes same-sex acts if they involve a minor. Petitioners did not just want to criminalize certain acts—they sought to encode a moral vision of citizenship rooted in propriety based on heteronormative assumptions. The AILA petition demonstrates what Janet Jakobsen and Ann Pellegrini (2003) describe as the cultural terrain where “sin and crime share a politics of moral regulation.” Petitioners claimed to target acts, not identities, in a “hate the sin, 199 DPR RI. (2020). Rancangan Undang-Undang Ketahanan Keluarga (draft of Family Resilience Bill, February 2020). Jakarta: Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat Republik Indonesia. === [PDF page 155] === 155 love the sinner” logic (Jakobsen & Pellegrini, 2003), but such distinctions collapse under scrutiny. Desire cannot be easily extricable from subjectivity. Criminalizing particular erotic acts inevitably stigmatizes the people whose desires give rise to them. In practice, the petition not only attempt to criminalize particular conducts but to cast particular groups of people as inherently deviant, criminal, and unfit as proper citizens. Such conflation was evident in how non-conforming subjects were constructed: repeatedly marked as criminal (perbuatan cabul), pathologized (penyimpangan seksual), erased as culturally foreign (budaya asing), and blamed for endangering children (korban). In the AILA case, the petitioners mobilized maternal concern and civic duty to amplify moral anxieties into legal demands, invoking children, national and family values, and divine punishment as affective triggers. In this sense, AILA’s petition was also about performing normativity, defining who belongs, what counts as “normal,” and what kinds of people the state must protect or exclude. The 2017 and 2020 drafts of the Family Resilience Bill reveal how legal discourse is mobilized to reinforce gendered norms and reconstitute the boundaries of citizenship through the regulation of family life. While both drafts share ideological foundations–framing the family as the moral and developmental cornerstone of the nation, rooted in religious and Pancasila valuesthey diverge sharply in institutional logic, regulatory mechanisms, and their treatment of gender and reproductive governance. Both texts are embedded within a moral project of nation-building that positions “family resilience” as central to national resilience, well-being, and moral order, yet they differ in how this ideal is operationalized and enforced. In courtroom testimonies and written arguments, petitioners repeatedly claimed that Indonesia was under siege by budaya asing (foreign cultures) that promoted LGBT visibility and === [PDF page 156] === 156 sexual freedom. This moral-nationalist framing cast LGBT as antithetical to Pancasila (or, national identity) and national resilience. The family, especially in its idealized heteronormative form, was elevated as the moral and ontological foundation of the state. This is parallel to how the Turkish state’s construction of the nuclear family as a modernizing yet disciplinary institution Sīrman (2005). In line with Sīrman’s argument, the AILA case also illustrates how citizenship in Indonesia is mediated through family structure. Legal and political recognition is contingent not just on individual behavior, but on alignment with ideas about the ideal family. The criminalization of non-marital sex or same-sex intimacy is not merely a matter of legality but of moral legibility: those who cannot—or do not—perform the proper familial roles are rendered suspect, pathological, or criminal. Moreover, while the Indonesian Constitution guarantees equal rights to all citizens, the institutional discourse surrounding cases like AILA reveals that such rights are conditional— granted only to those who conform to the imagined moral order of the nation. The heteronormative family functions as a filtering mechanism, producing proper citizens through regulated intimacy. In this framework, women appear either as guardians of morality or as dependent reproducers of the nation, while queer individuals and those outside marital structures are positioned as deviant and ungovernable. As Sīrman (2005) warns, analyses of citizenship that focus only on the absence of rights— e.g., human rights or individual freedoms—often fail to interrogate how the nation-state produces those very exclusions. In Indonesia, the production of the “proper” citizen involves the enforcement of normative intimacy through legal, religious, and cultural discourses. The AILA === [PDF page 157] === 157 case illustrates this clearly: the courtroom became a site where national morality was negotiated, maternal affect was politicized, and familial norms were made into the foundation for legal reasoning. While the Constitutional Court ultimately rejected the petition, citing its inability to legislate morality in the absence of demonstrable constitutional harm, the process itself reinscribed the boundaries of legitimate citizenship. The Court’s rejection did little to challenge the underlying premise that the heterosexual nuclear family is the moral anchor of the nation. In fact, by refusing to engage substantively with the human rights dimensions of the case, the Court left intact the broader logic of familial citizenship. Indeed, the family in Indonesia is not merely symbolic. It structures access to welfare, to legal recognition, and to social legitimacy. In both states, the family is not simply a private domain but a public institution of moral governance, producing the national subject through intimate relations. The AILA case does not just represent a legal contest over sexuality—it exemplifies how the Indonesian state negotiates the cultural and moral terms of citizenship through the family, producing normative citizens through gendered, sexualized, and moralized discourses. As long as the state continues to position the family as the primary site of moral order, sexual citizenship will remain precarious, and the category of the “proper citizen” will continue to be defined not by legal rights but by moral and familial conformity. The Family Resilience Bill, too, particularly in its 2020 iteration, exemplifies the Indonesian state’s ongoing project to regulate citizenship through the institution of the family. The bill codifies normative gender roles and moral behavior into law by casting men as heads of households and primary providers, while women are relegated to the roles of homamaker, caregivers, and moral guardian of the nation. Non-conforming family arrangements and intimate === [PDF page 158] === 158 partnerships are rendered invisible, deviant, or in need of state correction. Through this lens, the Family Resilience Bill does not aim to protect “all families,” but to legally constitute a singular family form as the only legitimate social unit. The AILA judicial review petition and Family Resilience Bill reveal how moral citizenship based on heteronomative family operate: where the right to belong, to be recognized and protected by the state, is contingent upon conforming to a specific model of family and intimate life. Both initiatives are not just matters of technocratic revision to existing law but a reaffirming of exising moral order and potential reconfiguration of governing technology aimed at producing compliant, gendered, and familial subjects who are legible to the nation-state. Legislative dossiers, such as the Naskah Akademik accompanying the Family Resilience Bill, often provide pseudo-scientific rationales for regulating intimacy, while parliamentary procedures reveal how moral agendas can advance despite fractured political support. Together, these legal and bureaucratic processes reaffirm that in post-Reformasi Indonesia, the family is both the object and instrument of state power where the moral boundaries of the nation are drawn and contested. These attempts to increasingly govern morality through state policies and laws targeting citizens’ intimate lives and families cannot be divorced from broader anxieties about who belongs and under what terms. They were not simply about sexualities and deviances but also about redrawing the boundaries of the public and private, reasserting state’s authority over the lives of citizens, and securing a heteronormative future in Indonesia. State-led initiatives such as the Family Resilience Bill, mirror the AILA judicial petition, as they both sought to govern the intimate as a site of national resilience and development. === [PDF page 159] === 159 As debates surrounding the petition and proposed drafts unfolded, we can see that such moments of contestation brought the cultural script that ties the family to national belonging, and in turn, citizenship into view, making visible what is otherwise taken for granted. Both cases reveal that family and sexuality are not residual concerns but a locus where the politics of gender, sexuality, morality, and citizenship are negotiated. Central to these negotiations are gendered and familial roles such as housewife (ibu rumah tangga) and woman as protector of the nation (perempuan pelindung bangsa) as moral authorities. These signifiers are not neutral–these categories are historically produced and strategically deployed by state officials, religious leaders, experts, and civil-society actors to articulate competing views of citizenship and moral order. They are strategically mobilized, often becoming sites of contestation when different moral claims collide within legal and political arenas. Such symbolic repertoires acquire material force once encoded in law. The 2020 draft of the Family Resilience Bill (RUU Ketahanan Keluarga) explicitly assigns wives the duty of “managing household affairs” (Article 25) and frames nonheteronormative sexualities as threats to family stability, thereby linking access to state welfare and citizenship rights to heterosexual family performance. 200 Scholars have long argued that the state does not merely guarantee rights; it produces normative subjects through which those rights are recognized and withheld. The good citizen is imagined as someone who forms a family, reproduces, and contributes to development of the nation, as Lauren Berlant (1997) notes, the idea of citizenship is deeply entangled with fantasies of intimacy and national belonging. Within this schema, heterosexuality becomes the unmarked norm, and the nuclear family is elevated as both the embodiment of national virtue and the 200 DPR RI. (2020). Rancangan Undang-Undang Ketahanan Keluarga (draft of Family Resilience Bill, February 2020). Jakarta: Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat Republik Indonesia. === [PDF page 160] === 160 mechanism through which rights and responsibilities are distributed. Legal and political institutions materialize heterosexual norms through the recognition of marriage, parenting rights, and family-based social benefits (Butler 2002). These norms are not simply ideological but are built into laws, welfare policies, and public discourses that legitimize only certain forms of life. As a result, non-conforming individuals, particularly those who do not or cannot form staterecognized families, are frequently cast as deviant or even a threat. Their failure or refusal to conform to the heterosexual family model is read not merely as personal noncompliance, but as a threat to the imagined nation. === [PDF page 161] === 161 Chapter Four Heteronormative Family as Moral Infrastructure The Cases of LGBT and Women Heads of Household The heteronormative family is centered in this dissertation as a moral infrastructure—an embedded, often invisible assemblage of symbolic meanings, social practices, institutions, and technical-material arrangements that mediate moral judgments, organize affective and ethical dispositions, and structure access to rights, recognition, and legitimacy (Chapter 1). Through the codification of marriage law in 1974, the state did not just establish a legal uniformity, it also naturalized a particular family model which was further institutionalized as foundational to national unity and moral order. The law also legitimized state authority to intervene and govern intimate life—a domain that previously fell within the authority of adat (customs) and religious institutions. The law formally ties ideas about “proper” citizens to how citizens can act in alignment with the ideal of the heteronormative family: to marry, to form a reproductive family within a privatized household, and to embody the roles embedded within that household (Chapter 2). This moral infrastructure is mostly obscured, becoming visible only in moments of uncertainty where its underpinnng moral order is contested. Yet, as illustrated in legal and political debates surrounding initiatives such as the AILA judicial review petition and the Family Resilience Bill, even in such moments the heteronormative family is defended and reaffirmed as the line dividing the citizenry between those who are proper, meritorious citizens and those who are not (Chapter This chapter explores how the heteronormative family model codified within the Marriage Law affects individuals who do not conform to it, particularly LGBT individuals and women heads === [PDF page 162] === 162 of household. The trajectory of the two cases will not be presented uniformly. While both groups do not conform to the heteronormative family, their trajectories of exclusion and modes of negotiation diverge. Women heads of household are often constructed as either exceptional or unfortunate subjects within the state’s developmentalist framework and dominant narratives of belonging. In contrast, LGBT individuals are largely illegible within such a framework, with no formal recognition afforded to them. In the case of women heads of household, the analysis will begin in the post-Reformasi period, with attention to the rise of gender-mainstreaming policies and poverty alleviation programs that sought to integrate this group as exceptional subjects of development. This group is primarily recognized when described in terms of vulnerability or as a stand-in for absent male providers. In contrast, the section on LGBT groups traces a different trajectory of exclusion, beginning not from partial inclusion but from political invisibility. Heteronormative ideals embedded in the Marriage Law not only reflect dominant cultural scripts but also determine resource allocation based on ideas of proper citizenship. The state renders legible a particular kind of intimacies for state recognition, defining what counts as a legitimate marriage and who is permitted to engage in socially sanctioned forms of intimacy (Andersen, 1991; Cott, 2002). Being unmarried or not being a part of a recognizable family becomes an impediment since laws and government policies increasingly consider marital status as a definitive criterion for distributing welfare and tax benefits as well as determining citizens’ rights and obligations. The state, for example, provided benefits for the wives and for fatherless or motherless children of men who had died in service as military members, provided that they were legally married and that the children were legally registered as part of the family. Marital status also often determines who can have hospital visitation rights, health care, family leave, and === [PDF page 163] === 163 survivor’s benefits; whether they can pass on property to their partners; and matters of inheritance. Since not all can get married and form a family that is recognizable by the state, how marriage (and family) is understood greatly affects whether citizens are able to access resources and social safety provisions in times of need. This chapter emphasizes the enduring importance of marriage and family in delineating citizenship boundaries. As a moral infrastructure, the heteronormative family serves as a key metric of valuation for citizens through which meanings, practices, and institutional arrangements are organized and justified. In this configuration, access to citizenship rights, such as the right to form a family or to receive state assistance during times of need, becomes contingent on individuals’ ability to align with heteronormative ideals. Consequently, “doing” gender in accordance to normative expectations (West and Zimmerman 1987) or “performing” gender roles (Butler 1990) becomes a condition for recognition, social support, and full political membership. The privileges granted to the heteronormative family thus compel individuals to conform to, or “pass” within, these frameworks to gain recognition as legitimate citizens. Yet, across times, members of LGBT communities and women heads of household, have continously engaged with creative ways of living which resist and reconfigure the constraints imposed by this moral infrastructure. The political opening after the 1998 Reformasi creates opportunities for groups to engage with politics and mobilize to make demands for recognition of their citizenship status. As discussed previously, citizenship is now seen as a dynamic social process wherein individuals and groups actively participate in claiming, expanding, or sometimes losing rights (Isin & Nielsen, 2008; Isin & Wood, 1999; Yuval-Davis, 1997). As Isin and Turner observe: === [PDF page 164] === 164 The modern conception of citizenship as merely a status held under the authority of a state has been contested and broadened to include various political and social struggles of recognition and redistribution as instances of claim-making, and hence, by extension, of citizenship. As a result, various struggles based upon identity and difference … have found new ways of articulating their claims as claims to citizenship understood not simply as a legal status but as political and social recognition and economic redistribution (Isin & Turner, 2002, p. 2). Inherent in democratic inclusion is the demand for recognition of groups differentiated rights (Kymlicka, 1995). According to Taylor (1994), the supposed link between identity and recognition is as follows: … our identity is partly shaped by recognition or its absence, often by the misrecognition of others, and so a person or group of people can suffer real damage, real distortion, if the people or society around them mirror back to them a confining or demeaning or contemptible picture of themselves. Nonrecognition or misrecognition can inflict harm, can be a form of oppression, imprisoning someone in a false, distorted, and reduced mode of being (Taylor, 1994, p. 25). Recognition is constitutive of identity. How one is perceived by others (“whether affirming or demeaning”) constructs one’s identity. Non-recognition or misrecognition is damaging because it creates constraints on how people live and what they deserve, and because it creates oppression, “imprisoning them” by limiting their sense of possibility and legitimacy. Moreover, as YuvalDavis (2006) notes, citizenship struggles are not just struggles for legal rights but also the right to belong. Current discussions around citizenship encompass various aspects, including the interplay between citizenship and human rights, as well as the responsibilities and civic virtues expected of citizens. As the conceptualization of citizenship broadened, so did citizens. Nevertheless, this notion of “citizens” is mostly reserved for men within a heteronormative family arrangement. As Ruth Lister (1997) notes, the active “citizen” has been put forward as an alternative to the welfare === [PDF page 165] === 165 state, in which the citizen, constructed as an economically successful middle-class male head of a family, would fulfill his citizenship duties by providing for the community. Richardon also argues: In so far as the nation-state is constructed as heterosexual, this does not mean that all forms of heterosexuality are necessarily regarded equally. It is heterosexuality as marriage and the traditional, middle-class nuclear family which is commonly held up as a model of good citizenship, necessary for ensuring national security and a stable social order (Richardson, 1998, p. 92). This formulation risks relegating women and others who do not fit into the heteronormative family model to the margins. Their existence is position as deviations from the ideal citizen perceived as essential to national security and stable social order. Moral infrastructure allocates resources and legitimacy based on valuation measured against normative ideals about heteronormative families. Groups are classified according to their relative position to the dominant categories. It reflects what Mink (1995) describes as a “troubled coexistence” between dominant and subordinate categories, where the dominant category (in this case, the heteronormative family) not only defines itself through exclusion but also legitimizes its dominance through this exclusionary logic. LGBT groups are mostly illegible vis-à-vis the dominant categories and thus missing from census data, state registration, or other bureaucratic classifications. This difference inevitably shapes the distinct ways in which these groups experience and navigate politics and citizenship. In contrast, as a social group, women heads of household are recognized particularly during bureaucratic encounters and through formal administrative measures, which position them in relation to the dominant category of household and family. LGBT individuals are defined primarily through their sexual orientation, gender identity, and gender expression that are often perceived as inherent, personal, and enduring. Their exclusion === [PDF page 166] === 166 stems from being positioned as inherently outside normative frameworks of gender and sexuality, framing them as a threat to societal and moral order. In contrast, women heads of household are categorized based on their social and economic position as women who, often as a result of widowhood or separation occupy the role of primary providers and decision-makers within the household. This category is situational and relational, rather than anchored in personal identity. These women may not claim a shared identity in the same way as LGBT individuals do. Yet, their categorization is based on to what extent they can position themselves in alignment with the heteronormative family structure. Although both are categories of people, this distinction affects how each group is perceived, governed, and included (or excluded) from the citizenship. Unmarried women and widows, for instance, may be denied access to welfare services tied to marital status, their exclusion reinforced by the ways in which the heteronormative family as a moral infrastructure operates. In contrast, those who transgress the bounds of acceptable sexual citizenship are excluded not just from access to full citizenship status but from the national imaginary itself. 201 They are rendered illegible—unthinkable as legitimate citizens. As argued earlier (Chapter 2), the naturalization and institutionalization of the heterosexual family as the basis of the nation enables a dual process: the legitimization of heteronormative and the systemic exclusion of non-conforming citizens. 201 Jasbir Puar (2007) uses the concept of “homonationalism” to describe how certain queer subjects can be included in national projects only if they align with dominant racial, religious, or cultural norms often at the expense of more radical or non-normative queers. In another iteration of normativity among queer community, Lisa Duggan coins the term homonormativity to refer to “a politics that does not contest dominant heteronormative assumptions and institutions but upholds and sustains them while promising the possibility of a demobilized gay constituency and a privatized, depoliticized gay culture anchored in domesticity and consumption” (Duggan, 2002, p. 179). === [PDF page 167] === 167 The Case of Women Heads of Household: Who Counts? Movements to support women heads of households in Indonesia started in the 2000s. One organization spearheading this movement is the Pemberdayaan Perempuan Kepala Keluarga (Women Heads of Household Empowerment Program, PEKKA). The initiative was initially part of Komnas Perempuan’s effort to document the lives of widows in conflict-affected regions, alongside the Sub-District Development Program (PPK) funded by the World Bank, which sought to address the urgent needs of widows in Aceh as they navigated severe economic hardship and trauma. Initially known as the “Widows Project,” this collaboration led Komnas Perempuan to partner with the Pusat Pengembangan Sumberdaya Wanita (PPSW) to establish a National Secretariat, with PPSW Director Nani Zulminarni appointed as its Coordinator (PEKKA, 2018). Nani later proposed transforming the project into a more expansive and inclusive program by reframing it to cater to not only widows but also other women heads of household whose strengthened position, roles, and responsibilities could serve as the basis for empowerment. Rather than a group whose identity is based on marital status (i.e., widowhood), now the group foregrounds their distinct economic role as providers for the family. 202 PEKKA defines women heads of household as those who assume the roles of breadwinner, household manager, and decision-maker, ensuring the survival of their families. This group includes widows, divorced women, unmarried women with dependents, women abandoned by their husbands, and married women whose husbands are unable or unwilling to act as household heads, whether due to work, absence, or polygamous marriage (PEKKA, 2018). The first PEKKA 202 As previously mentioned, women heads of household refer to women who become primary providers (breadwinners) in their respective households wherein men are absent or ancillary, regardless of marriage status (Chapter 1). This group includes widows, divorced women, single mothers, and women abandoned or neglected by their husbands. === [PDF page 168] === 168 group in early 2002 on Adonara Island in East Nusa Tenggara, marking the beginning of a movement that recognized and organized women household heads as a distinct social and political group, with widows being subsumed as part of its constituent. The PEKKA Program, supported by the Japan Social Development Fund (JSDF) through grants provided to the Indonesian government via the World Bank, extends beyond merely offering financial support. While its primary focus is economic, the program is said to be rooted in the belief that promoting financial independence alongside fostering critical awareness of women’s rights can empower women to challenge patriarchal structures and achieve lasting social change. 203 Underpinning many of PEKKA’s initiatives (PEKKA, 2018), is the focus on resisting and redefining the dominant narratives about their position within the family and the broader society. Although women heads household recognized group, the breadwinner/homemaker family model remains a dominant framework for organizing social life and informing government policies such as employment benefits and social provisions. Women are typically not recognized as heads of households despite their de-facto roles within the household unless no adult men are present. In Indonesia, beyond dominant cultural scripts and norms about family and gender roles, men as the designated household heads is codified in the Marriage Law which assign the husband as the head of the household and the wife as a homemaker.204 203 Personal communication with Romlawati, PEKKA co-director, 30 January 2023, and Fitria Villa Sahra, PEKKA co-director, 3 February, 2023. 204 The terms ‘family’ and ‘household’ are often used interchangeably but they refer to distinct entities. The household is a unit of residence comprised of one or more individuals who reside together and who share resources linked to the daily reproduction of life, including shelter and food, as well as some social activities. Very often people who reside together in a household are related by ties of kinship and marriage and hence are also part of a family. However, family members may also reside in different households, living apart sometimes separated by long distance (Ferree, 2010). === [PDF page 169] === 169 Cultural scripts that restrict women’s mobility and confine them to domestic roles perpetuate the myth that women are incapable of articulating their own needs or making decisions. This results in their exclusion from public participation, leaving their needs unheard and often met with irrelevant solutions. The critical shortcomings of current development strategies is the reduction of women’s issues to narrow, simplistic categories that reflect patriarchal views. 205 For example, instead of addressing healthcare or nutrition gaps, aid initiatives may focus on providing livestock or building village halls, further highlighting the disconnect between women’s actual needs and the interventions they receive. 206 The emphasis on the correlation between womenheaded households and poverty diverts attention from the broader structures that perpetuate women’s systemic disadvantage. As a population group, women heads of household was already recorded in the national census since 1971;207 however, the recognition of women heads of household as a distinct social and political group is a relatively recent development. A leader of PEKKA recently observed that women heads of households is inreasingly recognized by the state, as it is now used and discussed as a category in state documents, particularly by the Ministry of Religious Affairs and the Directorate General of Religious Courts (Badilag).208 205 Skepticism surrounding development projects in Indonesia is rooted in concerns about the misallocation of funding and the misidentification of key issues, particularly those affecting women. This risk is exacerbated by weak public oversight of budget use and aid distribution, leading to a lack of accountability in resource management. Kompas. 2006. “Menolak Kategori-Kategori Reduksionis,” Kompas, May 19, 60. 206 Ibid. 207 The national census was reported in Central Bureau of Statistics] and State Ministry of Population/National Family Planning Coordinating Board and Ministry of Health and Macro International Inc. 1996. Trends in Demographic, Family Planning, and Health Indicators in Indonesia, 1961-1994. Calverton, Maryland (USA): Central Bureau of Statistics and Macro International Inc. 208 Personal communication with Fitria Villa Sahara, PEKKA co-director, February 23, 2023. === [PDF page 170] === 170 A report published by SMERU Research Institute shows that there are six million women heads of households, each supporting an average of 3 to 5 family members. Their limited education (many are illiterate) forces them to work in the informal sector, earning around only Rp 10,000 per day (less than 1 USD). Many of these women are also victims of violence and discrimination. Over half of them live below the poverty line, and many are unable to access government support (The SMERU Research Institute, 2010). These numbers, however, may be underreported in national statistics surveys. Researchers noted that women heads of household face challenges due to limited access to economic opportunities and government support which is exacerbated by the household-based surveys commonly used in Indonesia. Surveys conducted by BPS, for instance, often fail to register families living within larger households, such as women heads of household residing with their parents, rendering them part of the “hidden poor” and excluding them from critical resources. 209 Part of the identified needs of women heads of household is to ensure their access to welfare resources, such as employment opportunities, food and non-food subsidies, educational guarantees, healthcare facilities, and housing availability. 210 One-third of these women are excluded from direct cash transfer program (Bantuan Langsung Tunai, BLT) and lack access to the national health insurance program. Additionally, more than half of PEKKA members are not in legally recognized marriages, which further complicates their access to social benefits. Currently, only two central government programs—the Family Hope Program (Program Keluarga Harapan, PKH) and the National Program for Community Empowerment (Program Nasional 209 “Kesejahteraan Sosial: 20.000 Keluarga Dikepalai Perempuan.” Kompas, April 2, 2015, p. 12. Personal communication with researchers at SMERU, Asri Yusrina, 20 January 2023 and Niken Kusumawardhani, 24 January 2023. 210 “Tantangan Perempuan Kepala Keluarga,” Kompas, August 5, 2020, p. 5. === [PDF page 171] === 171 Pemberdayaan Masyarakat Mandiri, PNPM)—specifically prioritize women as the primary beneficiaries, primarily through women’s group savings and loans initiatives. Furthermore, their representation in village governance and political activities remains marginal, reflecting broader systemic barriers to their participation in decision-making processes (The SMERU Research Institute, 2010). A significant number of women heads of household from lower-income backgrounds are unable to access public services and government assistance due to their exclusion from government data collection. These women, often abandoned by their husbands, divorced, or widowed, frequently return to live with their parents or relatives, which further marginalizes them. Many lack the necessary legal documentation, such as divorce certificates, family cards, or identity cards, and their children are often without birth certificates, making it even more difficult to access essential services. 211 The absence of official divorce papers or family registration documents leads to these women being categorized under their parents’ or relatives’ households during data collection, resulting in their exclusion from government databases. As a result, they are denied critical resources, including social assistance programs and disaster relief. This exclusion not only affects their financial well-being but also strips them of their social and political rights, such as the ability to vote in elections, as their names are often missing from voter rolls. 212 Despite being the primary 211 For citizens of Indonesia, their marital status is displayed in their national identity card (Kartu Tanda Penduduk, KTP) and their family registration card (Karta Keluarga, KK). Not all the married children move away from their parental household, however, sometimes within one residence (or, household) there is more than one family. This can be traced through census report as well. Some households consist of more than one family although it is commonly assumed that only one family resides in one household, creating dissonance in data collection. 212 “Kesetaraan Jender: Sejumlah Perempuan Kepala Keluarga Tak Masuk Pendataan,” Kompas, August 4, 2020, p. === [PDF page 172] === 172 providers for their families, they are often denied essential rights such as family allowances, particularly in sectors like factory work, where they are perceived as supplementary income earners. This misperception marginalizes their economic contributions and limits their access to resources and social programs designed to alleviate poverty. Indeed, although a model of breadwinner-homemaker family is increasingly outdated in practice, much of the data collection and policies informed by such data still operate under these assumptions. Statistical data is often collected based on specific criteria, such as marital status and household structure, which can obscure the realities of the lives of individuals living outside the heteronormative family arrangement. Unmarried or divorced women are often recorded as part of another household, rather than recognized as heads of their own families even if they provide for themselves. Civil registration records, particularly concerning marriage and divorce, have limitations in accurately capturing all types of partnerships. 213 One notable challenge is to register certain forms of unions that fall outside the legal definition of marriage. For instance, kawin kontrak (a form of temporary union arranged for a specific period), while practiced in Indonesia, is not officially recognized, resulting in inaccurate representation in censuses and civil registration records. The Marriage Law defines marriage as a union aimed at establishing a lasting and harmonious family based on religious principles, and for a marriage to be legally valid, it must conform to religious laws and be registered with the appropriate authorities. Kawin kontrak, which deviate from this purpose (“establishing a lasting and harmonious family”), are considered invalid 213 In addition to the Central Bureau of Statistics (BPS), data on marriage, divorce, and reconcilliation (talak, nikah, rujuk) can also be accessed through the Directorate General of Religious Courts (Badilag) under the Supreme Court, the Civil Registry Administration (Adminduk) under the Ministry of Home Affairs, and the Ministry of Religious Affairs. === [PDF page 173] === 173 under the Law. Furthermore, any agreement to enter into a contract marriage does not meet the legal standards for a valid contract under Indonesia’s Civil Code. 214 Differences in how marriage and other forms of union are recognized and recorded by governments and statistical agencies can also hamper any efforts to render the women heads of household legible. Marital status is one of the variables that all countries are expected to record through their censuses. The UN Principles and Recommendations for Population and Housing Censuses (Revision 3) suggest the use of a minimum of five categories for marital status: (a) single (never married); (b) married; (c) married, but separated (whether legally or de facto); (d) widowed and not remarried; and (e) divorced and not remarried (United Nations, 2017).215 Given the diversity in marriage practices, the numbers must be treated with caution and are not always reliable. It depends on, partly, on policy interest in cohabitation or single-person household may result in new census data. The definition of “head of household” used by the Central Bureau of Statistics (BPS) adds further complexity to understanding the role of women heads of household in Indonesia. According to the latest BPS data, approximately 15 percent of households in Indonesia are headed by women.216 However, BPS employs ambiguous definition of heads of households as an 214 See Article 2 and 3 of Kompilasi Hukum Islam. Kementerian Agama RI, Direktoral Jenderal Bimbingan Masyarakat Islam, & Direktorat Bina KUA dan Keluarga Sakinah. (2018). Kompilasi Hukum Islam di Indonesia. Kementerian Agama RI. The Indonesian Ulema Council (Majelis Ulama Indonesia, MUI) explicitly declares that contract marriage (nikah mut’ah or kawin kontrak) is forbidden (haram) under Islamic law. This ruling is based on Fatwa MUI No. KepB-679/MUI/IX/1997. 215 The UN Principles also acknowledge the need to capture customary unions, such as registered partnerships and consensual unions, in contexts in which these are legal and binding under law. In countries with legal provision for registered or legal partnership, or where same-sex couples can legally marry, the recommendations call for the inclusion of two additional sub-categories: (b)(i) opposite-sex marriage/partnership and (b)(ii) same-sex marriage/partnership. Statistics Indonesia (Badan Pusat Statistics, BPS) classifies women heads of household into four categories: deceased, divorcees, living divorcees, married, and unmarried. 216 As reported in a study by SMERU Research Institute and in interviews with PEKKA leadership. === [PDF page 174] === 174 individual who is responsible for meeting the family’s daily needs, or the person officially recognized as the head of the household. 217 This distinction, often framed in terms of de jure and de facto heads of households, creates inconsistencies in data collection. In many cases, only one person can be listed as the head of household, which often overlooks women who are, in practice, the primary providers. This gap in data collection has significant implications for policy planning and the implementation of poverty reduction programs, as many women heads of household are not accurately represented, leading to their exclusion from critical social support initiatives. Moreover, statistics often fail to capture the gendered dimensions of poverty, particularly the specific forms of marginalization faced by impoverished widows and women heads of households. And yet, poverty is more likely to occur in households with women as the heads of households. PEKKA’s data reveals that ninety percent of women heads of household are those who are abandoned by their husbands, often for years, leaving them in legal and statistical limbo. This situation deprives these women and their children of their rights as citizens. In some regions, such as East Nusa Tenggara, customary law further burdens them by requiring that they care for their husband’s parents.218 The exclusion of these women from national statistics due to their lack of proper documentation regarding family status has a long-term and generational repercussions for their livelihoods, leaving them and their children invisible and underserved in social and economic policies. In poverty reduction programs, identification of beneficiaries is one of the most critical aspects. Without an effective methodology to accurately identify beneficiaries, even the best- 217 As cited by Statistics Indonesia (Badan Pusat Statistik, BPS), “the head of household (Kepala Rumah Tangga, KRT) is a member of the household who is responsible for meeting the household’s daily needs, or someone who is considered, acknowledged, or designated as the Head of Household. 218 “Persona: Zulminarni-Membongkar Ketakberdayaan,” Kompas, June 13, 2020, p. 27. === [PDF page 175] === 175 designed programs will fail to achieve their intended impact. In Indonesia, most government assistance programs follow a two-step targeting process, with the exception of the direct cash transfer program (BLT). First, the central government allocates program resources to districts using geographic targeting, with poorer districts typically receiving a larger share. The second step involves individual targeting, where district governments are responsible for ensuring the programs reach their intended recipients. To do this, district governments traditionally rely on family data collected annually by the National Family Planning Coordination Board (Badan Koordinasi Keluarga Berencana Nasional, BKKBN). While the specific process varies by program, this two-tier approach aims to ensure that assistance is distributed effectively at both the district and individual levels.219 Since the implementation of regulation on regional autonomy, several district and provincial governments have developed their own methods for identifying the poor, often adapting the BKKBN’s indicators with minor adjustments. However, the targeting mechanism used in the 2005 direct cash transfer (BLT) program differs from BKKBN’s approach. The BLT program, designed as a centrally administered program, limits the role of district and local governments. Instead, Statistics Indonesia (BPS) conducted individual targeting through a method known as proxy means testing. The process of identifying eligible families for BLT involved several steps. First, BPS used data from the National Socio-economic Survey (Susenas) from 2002 to 2004 to identify district-specific poverty indicators. BPS personnel then conducted nationwide household surveys using a newly developed questionnaire. The data collected were processed through a 219 BKKBN started collecting family welfare data in 1994. As of 2004, BKKBN already had data on 175 million individuals across Indonesia. The BKKBN classifies families into five welfare categories: Pre-prosperous, Prosperous I through III, and Prosperous III+. Families considered poor fall into the Pre-prosperous and Prosperous I categories. === [PDF page 176] === 176 computerized system to calculate a welfare score for each family, thereby determining their eligibility for cash transfers. 220 In either methods, however, the fact remains: they use family and household surveys which may inaccurately records those outside the dominant family and household arrangements such as women heads of household. Data inconsistencies further complicate the situation. While the BPS reports that 15.17 percent of Indonesian households are headed by women, other sources, such as the Integrated Social Welfare Data and PEKKA, suggest much higher figures. These discrepancies indicate that many female heads of households are missing from official records, limiting their access to social assistance programs. 221 Family-based data collection, such as the 2012 Community-Based Welfare Monitoring System (SPKBK) survey by PEKKA, provides a different picture. This survey found that 25.1 percent of families were headed by women, significantly higher than household-based surveys. By adopting a family-based system, which is more gender-sensitive and capable of identifying families living within larger households, women heads of household could be better identified and supported through social protection and poverty alleviation programs.222 220 There are two key differences between the BPS and BKKBN methodologies. First, BPS employs a more sophisticated, district-specific approach to identifying poverty indicators, whereas BKKBN relies on a standardized national checklist. Second, BPS uses its own personnel for data collection, while BKKBN utilizes local residents. While both methodologies have their respective strengths, they also share weaknesses that can result in undercoverage and leakage. One issue is the ease with which data can be manipulated: since poverty indicators are predetermined, it is relatively simple to alter a family's reported characteristics to misclassify them as poor or not poor. Additionally, poverty is highly localized, with significant variation in characteristics between villages, making a single checklist for an entire district—or the entire country—susceptible to bias. An ideal system would combine the strengths of both methods: leveraging local knowledge while employing a more sophisticated methodology to reduce errors. Moreover, the issue of recipient eligibility remains complex, as it is often influenced by how families and households are understood in relation to marital status, which adds another layer of complexity to accurately determining who qualifies for aid. 221 “Kesetaraan Jender: Sejumlah Perempuan Kepala Keluarga Tak Masuk Pendataan,” Kompas, August 4, 2020, p. 222 “Perempuan Kepala Keluarga Berdaya,” Kompas, August 6, 6. === [PDF page 177] === 177 The Covid-19 pandemic that started in 2022 intensified the challenges faced by women heads of household, already burdened with the responsibility of sustaining their families. The pandemic highlighted the significant yet often unrecognized role these women play in the economy, with their contributions frequently overlooked due to entrenched cultural beliefs about gender roles. Despite their essential role as breadwinners, these women remain largely invisible in government policies and social protection programs. Many are excluded from government assistance due to a lack of legal recognition, as informal marriages or abandonment by husbands leave them without family registration documents. The stigma attached to widows and single mothers further compounds their marginalization, perpetuating their exclusion from access to critical resources and opportunities. 223 One evidence of the gradual inclusion of women heads of household is an intervention by the Ministry of Villages, Disadvantaged Regions, and Transmigration (Kemendesa PDTT) to ensure women heads of household receive direct cash assistance (BLT) from village funds during the Covid-19 pandemic.224 Data revealed that many of these women were not included in the Integrated Social Welfare Data (DTKS),225 despite their eligibility.226 Many of these women were also not registered in other social assistance programs. The majority of female BLT recipients 223 “Perempuan Kepala Keluarga Kian Terpuruk-Suara Tak Terdengar,” Kompas, August 3, 2020, p. 1. “Abdul Halim Iskandar-Peduli,” Kompas, August 11, 2020, p. 16. 225 The Integrated Social Welfare Data (DTKS) is a master database containing information on individuals and families in need of social welfare services, as well as those eligible for social assistance and empowerment programs. It serves as the main reference for poverty alleviation and social welfare programs in Indonesia, as mandated by Law No. 13 of 2011. To receive government assistance, individuals must be registered in the DTKS. Local governments, in coordination with village or sub-district officials, are responsible for identifying and proposing eligible residents for inclusion in the database. The validity of population data (National Identification Number (NIK), Family Card or Kartu Keluarga) is critical for the process, as it directly influences eligibility and access to support programs like the Family Hope Program (PKH) and Non-Cash Food Assistance (BPNT). If individuals or families believe they qualify but are not registered in DTKS, they can report to their local administrative units for verification and inclusion, ensuring they receive the assistance they are entitled to. See also Minister of Social Affairs Regulation No. 3 of 2021 on DTKS Management. 226 “Kesetaraan Jender: Libatkan Perempuan Kepala Keluarga Dalam Pemberdayaan.” Kompas, August 5, 2020, p. 1. 224 === [PDF page 178] === 178 work as farm laborers or land-owning farmers, highlighting their economic vulnerability. Local governments, in coordination with village heads, are now responsible for proposing eligible residents for inclusion in DTKS to access further assistance. This system is crucial for poverty alleviation programs, as it ensures that vulnerable groups, like women heads of household, are identified and supported.227 A crucial aspect of economic security, particularly for women, is the ability to own, manage, and inherit property. The extent to which women can accumulate wealth depends heavily on the marital property regime—the rules governing ownership and management of property during marriage and upon its dissolution (Alvarado & Twyman, 2012). The inheritance regime— the legal structure dictating wills and the distribution of assets in the absence of a will—also plays a fundamental role in shaping women’s financial stability. In Indonesia, marital and inheritance laws have been influenced by a mix of colonial, Islamic, and customary legal traditions. The implementation of these laws is further complicated by the fact that the state is not the sole arbiter of legal authority—local customs and religious interpretations often dictate inheritance practices in ways that disadvantage women. Social policies and family laws, including in matters of inheritance, are built upon the assumption that all citizens will eventually marry and would like to remain married. For women heads of household, the legal framework disregards their economic contributions and vulnerabilities. While not all womenheaded households are led by janda (widows), some are, and many choose not to remarry. 227 “Abdul Halim Iskandar-Peduli,” Kompas, August 11, 2020, p. 16. Additionally, President Joko Widodo has emphasized that women should be prioritized in social assistance programs, such as the Family Hope Program (PKH) and Non-Cash Food Assistance (BPNT). To further support them, Kemendesa PDTT has urged village heads to involve female heads of households in the Cash-For-Work Village Program (PKTD). Additionally, President Joko Widodo has emphasized that women should be prioritized in social assistance programs, such as the Family Hope Program (PKH) and Non-Cash Food Assistance (BPNT). === [PDF page 179] === 179 Consequently, unmarried women, particularly those who are single mothers, often face economic and legal disadvantages due to policies that assume they have (or will soon regain) provision from a male counterpart (i.e., their husband). Another challenge is the disparities in household asset ownership that often translate into their vulnerability to poverty. 228 Beyond formal legal structures, social and community norms play a powerful role in shaping women’s ability to accumulate, control, and transfer wealth. For example, in the lamaholot tradition of East Flores, women are systematically marginalized, excluded from decision-making processes, and often denied inheritance rights, including access to belis (dowry). Despite these structural barriers, women have mobilized to challenge discriminatory inheritance and property laws. Organizations like PEKKA have played a critical role in educating women about their rights and advocating for greater economic security. Petronella Peni, the first woman elected as a village head in Adonara, East Flores, is one such example. Through collective organizing, PEKKA and similar movements have enabled women to voice their demands in public spaces, challenge exclusionary norms, and push for policy reforms that grant them greater access to inheritance and assets. 229 The ability to own and manage property affects women’s bargaining power within the household and their economic security in the event of separation, divorce, or widowhood (Agarwal, 1994). In Indonesia, many poor women come from families with no wealth to pass down, while cultural norms often exclude or limit daughters from inheriting the family’s meager assets.230 Even where statutory laws recognize widows' rights, they may face eviction or property 228 “ Tantangan Perempuan Kepala Keluarga,” August 5, 2020, p. 5; “The Dilemma of Female Heads of Families in Indonesia,” Kompas, December 22, 2023. 229 “Petronella Peni Mengubah Tradisi,” Kompas, November 2, 2007, p. 16. 230 “Menolak Kategori-Kategori Reduksionis,” Kompas, May 19, 2006, p. 60. === [PDF page 180] === 180 grabbing by male relatives. Under both Islamic and customary inheritance practices, widows are typically entitled to only a fraction of their husband’s estate and must be shared among wives in the case of polygamous marriages (Djubaedah, 2010). In practice, many widows are completely excluded from inheritance, especially when assets are non-liquid, such as land or housing. Women’s ability to leave a partnership, or their “fallback position,” depends on the options available to them. When children are involved, the emotional and practical difficulties of divorce or separation are further compounded. While divorce is not uncommon in Indonesia, its rates have fluctuated alongside changing marriage practices. As arranged marriages have declined, the need for divorce as an escape from unsatisfactory partnerships has also decreased. However, divorce rates tend to rise with women's increasing economic independence (Dommaraju & Tan, 2014; Yeung et al., 2018).Three key factors shape a woman’s ability to exit a relationship are the legal framework governing divorce and child custody, including her access to justice; the level of social stigma surrounding divorce and separation; and her access to financial and other resources. These factors collectively determine whether a woman can successfully navigate the complexities of ending a partnership. As discussed previously (Chapter 2), women’s legal right to initiate divorce on the same terms as men is an important basis for ensuring their exit options, even while it is not always sufficient to overcome social stigma. In Indonesia, the conditions under which women are permitted to initiate a legal divorce are different than those for men. In Islamic law, men have the unilateral right to divorce. Women, however, can often only terminate the marriage contract with their husband’s consent or through application to the courts (Djubaedah, 2010; Prodjodikoro, 1984). In such cases, it is imperative that women have access to justice in courts. === [PDF page 181] === 181 In Indonesia, women’s agency in exiting a marriage also depends on how they entered it and may varied across communities according to local customs. Even with legal recognition in place, enforcing men’s responsibilities to their partners and children in the event of separation is often very difficult. This reinforces the need to ensure state support for women in this situation. For many women, child custody is a major factor in the decision to exit or remain in a partnership. In countries that apply Islamic law, however, the mother may have physical custody of her children, but guardianship typically stays with the father, even in cases of divorce and separation (Prodjodikoro, 1984).231 These severely restricts women’s agency, including her ability to make caregiving decisions, choose where she lives and control her own financial affairs. A study also revealed significant to access the courts for divorce proceedings, and women heads of households living below the poverty line often could not access social provisions such as health insurance (The SMERU Research Institute, 2010). A central issue uncovered by the study was the high prevalence of unregistered marriages and divorces among women in this category. Women heads of household faced obstacles in obtaining family registration cards and birth certificates for their children, which are essential for accessing public services. Moreover, without a legal divorce certificate, many women were unable to be recognized as the head of their household, preventing them from accessing critical services and poverty alleviation programs. 232 In Indonesia, religious courts preside over divorce cases and child custody. These courts deal with 97 per cent of divorce cases, most of which are initiated by women (Zulminarni & 231 Guardianship and physical custody may be allocated to a sole parent or divided between the parents, in cases of divorce, dissolution of a civil union and separation of parents (Prodjodikoro, 1984). 232 See also, “Kepala Keluarga: Akses Keadilan Dan Martabat Perempuan,” Kompas, July 23, 2010, p. 40. === [PDF page 182] === 182 Sumner, 2018).233 Religious courts also legalize informal marriages, which is important not only for women but also for children as it allows them to obtain a birth certificate with both the father’s and the mother’s name on it, in turn enabling access to education. However, women face a number of barriers in accessing the courts, including cost, distance, language and understanding of the legal process. Across decades and cultures, the issues facing women in marriage (and family) are strikingly similar: presumed dependency and unqual vulnerability. As Okin (1989) argues, these conditions structured women positions and put women at a disadvantage by allowing for their domination. Since the late colonial era, women’s activists have organized to challenge the conditions upon which women may enter and exit a marriage by advocating for a unified, universal marriage law. Yet, even with the enactment of the Marriage Law in 1974 (with its embedded heteronormative ideal and the assemblages of meanings, state practices and institutional arrangements built onto it), it does little to protect women. Instead, the law legitimates and reinforces existing power structure and social hierarchy both within and outside the family. As Okin (1989) notes, the persistence of gender division of labor (or, sex-differentiated marital roles) continues to shape how men and women think and behave, and reinforcing men’s dominance by attaching higher status and entitlement to paid work. As a result, women (especially homemakers) often undervalue their own contributions during marriage and are less likely to claim assets in divorce, while husbands frequently use their role as breadwinner to exert power within marriages. Okin notes: 233 In 2016, 12,939 divorce cases were filed by non-Muslim citizens of Indonesia in the general courts, 113,968 divorce cases were filed by Muslim men in the religious courts (cerai talak) and 289,102 divorce cases were filed by Muslim women in the religious courts (cerai gugat). See, Zulminarni and Sumner (2018, p. 9). === [PDF page 183] === 183 The traditional idea of sex-differentiated marital responsibility, with its provider-husband and domestic-wife roles, continues to be a strong influence on what men and women think and how they behave (Okin, 1989, p. 140) Given the emphasis our society places on economic success, belief in the male provider role strongly reinforces the domination of men within marriage. Although, as we shall see, many wives actually work longer hours (counting paid and unpaid work) than their husbands, the fact that a husband's work is predominantly paid gives him not only status and prestige, both within and outside the marriage, but also a greater sense of entitlement. As a consequence, wives experiencing divorce, especially if they have been housewives and mothers throughout marriage, are likely to devalue their own contributions to the marriage and to discount their right to share its assets. "Many divorcing women still see the money their husbands have earned as 'his money.'"14 In ongoing marriages too, it is not uncommon for husbands to use the fact that they are the primary breadwinners to enforce their views or wishes (Okin, 1989, p. 141). Despite women entering labor market, the gender division of labor persists. Women heads of household face a particular challenge, as they often do not benefit from the assumed pooled labor with other household members as men’s involvement in domestic tasks remains limited. Moreover, public support systems, such as affordable childcare or family leave, are also inadequate. Thus, women heads of the households face double burden which deepen their economic and social vulnerability. 234 Forced to juggle multiple roles, these women had to manage domestic duties and maintain their livelihoods without adequate support. Many of them, particularly those working in the informal sector, faced gender-based inequalities exacerbated by the expectation that they alone should handle household duties, while also earning a living to provide for the family. While the low level of education among female heads of households has long been cited as a key factor in their economic vulnerability, more systemic legal and cultural factors are increasingly recognized as exacerbating their poverty. One of the most significant issues is the lack of co-parenting in Indonesia, where men rarely share child-rearing responsibilities after divorce. After divorce, men often disengage from their children's upbringing, leaving the full 234 “Tantangan Perempuan Kepala Keluarga,” Kompas, August 5, 2020, p. 5. === [PDF page 184] === 184 burden of care and financial support on the woman. As a result, women heads of household are left in precarious economic conditions, solely responsible for providing for their children and managing household duties. This situation is compounded by the fact that former husbands rarely provide consistent financial support, a practice seen mostly among middle- and upper-class divorced couples. The financial strain on these women not only heightens their burden but also results in inadequate care for their children, negatively affecting the children’s academic and personal development. 235 Beyond the commonly discussed need for improved education for these women, legal and cultural dynamics play a significant role in perpetuating the economic vulnerability of women heads of household in Indonesia. The Case of LGBT groups: Is Family Always Already Heterosexual? For LGBT individuals who remain unmarried and whose relationships lack legal recognition, this assumption is also exclusionary. 236 Their intimate arrangements—whether in chosen families, cohabiting partnerships, or alternative kinship networks—remain largely invisible within the legal framework. Only heterosexual marriage is recognized and legitimated in Indonesia. Marriage is defined in the 1974 Marriage Law (Article 1) as follows: [a] relationship of body and soul between a man and a woman as husband and wife with the purpose of establishing a happy and lasting family or household founded on the belief in God Almighty (added emphasis). 235 “7 Juta Perempuan Kepala Keluarga: Ibu Tidak Berpendidikan, Pengasuhan Buruk,” Kompas, June 23, 2015, p. 11. 236 I borrowed this section’s title from an article by Judit Butler, “Is Kinship Always Already Heterosexual?” (Butler, 2002) === [PDF page 185] === 185 Without possibility to form marriage or legal union, same-sex couples are often denied rights related to inheritance, guardianship, and state benefits, reinforcing their economic and social precarity. In 2015, the legalization of same-sex marriage in the United States sent shockwaves through Indonesia, prompting government officials to reinforce their opposition to such recognition. 237 The Minister of Religious Affairs, Lukman Hakim Saifuddin, argued that in Indonesia, marriage is not merely a legal contract but “a sacred act inseparable from religious values.” Citing Article 28J, Section 2 of the Constitution, which allows limitations on human rights based on morality, security, social order, and religious values, Lukman maintained that same-sex marriage remained incompatible with Indonesian law.238 This asserted “incompatibiliy” reaffirms and naturalizes heterosexual marriage as an objective social reality. Moreover, by invoking the Constitution, which allows for the limitation of human rights based on “morality, secutiry, social order, and religious values,” any claims for same-sex marriage is predetermined to fail. This logic also greatly constrain human rights arguments by casting them as fundamentally misaligned with the ways in which the nation-state is constituted. In 1981, Tempo published the story of Bonnie and Jossie, both women, who held a “wedding reception” at a pub in South Jakarta. This event was highly unusual, as they are widely regarded as the first openly lesbian couple in Indonesia to publicly announce their relationship and covered by such a widely circulated magazine, Tempo.239 Their parents and families were also in 237 The Jakarta Post. (2015, July 2). Difficult for Indonesia to legalize gay marriage: Minister. The Jakarta Post. https://www.thejakartapost.com/news/2015/07/02/difficult-indonesia-legalize-gay-marriage-minister.html 238 Ministry of Religious Affairs of Indonesia. (2015, July 6). Menag Harap LGBT Dirangkul dan Diajak Dialog. https://kemenag.go.id. https://kemenag.go.id/nasional/menag-harap-lgbt-dirangkul-dan-diajak-dialog-vnfef7 239 The story of Bonnie and Jossie has also been discussed by other scholars, most notably Boellstorff (2005). === [PDF page 186] === 186 attendance, supporting them despite the unconventional nature of their union. Still, despite the apparent social recognition, the couple had already accepted that a legal marriage would be impossible. Both Bonnie and Jossie are Catholic, but neither the Church nor the Civil Registry Office they contacted were willing to legally recognize their marriage. 240 As stated by a lawyer interviewed to comment on this marriage: as long as both remain legally women, it would be difficult for the couple to obtain legal recognition of their marriage. 241 Both the existing marriage law and religious laws in Indonesia only regulate marriages between a man and a woman. Their act of holding the wedding celebration in public and calling it a “marriage” was not because they are ignorant of the existing norms or the operating moral infrastructure backed by institutional practices and arrangements (“neither the Church nor the Civil Registry Office they contacted were willing to legally recognize their marriage”). Because they chose not to conform, they ceased the reproduction of what was already the naturalized and institutionalized: the heterosexual marriage. Hortense Spillers (1987), who trace how Black kinship arrangements in the United States were pathologized for deviating from the dominant kinship norms, noted: 242 It seems clear, however, that “family,” as we practice and understand it, “in the West” –the vertical transfer of a bloodline, of a patronymic, of titles and entitlements, of real estate and the prerogative of “cold cash,” from fathers to sons and in the supposedly free exchange of affectional ties between a male and a female of his choice—becomes the mythical revered privilege of a free and freed community. In that sense, African peoples in the historic Diaspora had nothing to prove, if the point had been that they were not capable of “family” (read “civilization”), since it is stunningly evident … for instance, that Africans were not only capable of the concept and the practice of “family,” including “slaves,” but in modes of elaboration and naming that were at least as complex as those of the “nuclear family” in the West (Spillers, 1987, pp. 74-5). 240 “ Kisah Bonnie dan Jossie,” Tempo, 30 May, 1981, p. 52-53. Ibid. 242 Hortense Spillers (1987) traces how Black kinship arrangements were pathologized in the “Moynihan Report” for deviating from the dominant kinship norms. The Moynihan’s report, The Negro Family: The Case for National Action, is a report written by Daniel Patrick Moynihan and published by the United States Department of Labor in 1965. 241 === [PDF page 187] === 187 The privilege of performing “I do” and transferring property is historically denied to Black subjects (whose kinship structures were destroyed under slavery and later pathologized as matriarchal deviance (Spillers, 1987). While Spillers focus on the racialized kinship arrangements queer theorists who are also preoccopied with the dominant category of marriage like Judith Butler (1993) and Eve Sedgwick (1993) show how the performative act of marriage (“I do”) allows only certain subjects (the “sovereign” straight I) to speak and be recognized. In both cases, what appears as a natural kinship arrangement is instead a repeated act of naming and recognition, a reiteration of existing norms that produces the very subjects it claims merely to describe. While Bonnie and Jossie’s performing of “I do” would not extend the privileged of heteronormative family to them, it is clear that they have subvert the moral infrastructure and speak in the “grammar” of their own, that they, too, are “capable of the concept and practice of ‘family.’” In another case involving Vivian Rubianti Iskandar, a transpuan (transwoman) the state allowed her to marry after she obtained the legal status as a woman through the court. 243 In 1973, Vivian Rubianti underwent sex reassignment surgery, transitioning from male to female and managed to be legally recognized as a woman. 244 The formal recognition of the couples entering marriage as a man and a woman (heterosexual) is imperative to be legally married. While Vivian could publicly announce her marriage, a trans-person who aren’t formally and legally recognized 243 A brief news piece in the Personalia section of Kompas announced the marriage of Vivian Rubianti Iskandar, whose case of gender reassignment garnered widespread attention during court proceedings in 1973. Vivian, a wellknown hairstylist to the wives of Indonesia’s political elite, celebrated her marriage to a man, Felix Rumayar, at the New Imperial restaurant in Jakarta. The event was attended by several prominent figures, including Governor of Jakarta, Ali Sadikin and his wife, Nani Sadikin, who was one of Vivian’s elite clients. Kompas, Vivian Rubianti Iskandar menikah, rubrik Personalia, p.5, Thursday, November 6, 1975. 244 “Bila Tuan Jadi Nyonya,” Tempo, October 6, 1973, pp. 47–49; “Sah Perempuan,” Tempo, December 1, 1973, p. 15; “Vivian Memancing Hukum.” Tempo, October 13, 1973, pp. 36–38. === [PDF page 188] === 188 by the state cannot marry a person with the same sex as the trans person assigned sex at birth that is recorded in state identification such as birth certificate, family card, or national identity card. This case was an important contrast for what happened more than two decades after Vivian’s marriage was announce on Kompas. In 1997, the same newspaper published a report of a marriage between Pauline, a 28-year-old identified as transpuan and her partner who was identified as male in Samarinda, East Kalimantan.245 The marriage, which allegedly took place on March 2, sparked widespread public debates. In an interview published by Kompas newspaper, one legal expert noted that the union directly contradicted Indonesia’s Marriage Law No. 1/1974, which defines marriage as a bond between a man and a woman. As a result of the media attention, Pauline was forced to close her beauty salon, which had been her primary source of income, and relocate to another city. The director of the Perkumpulan Keluarga Berencana Indonesia (PKBI) where the wedding reception was held denied any intent to legitimize the union, explaining that the PKBI had simply allowed the couple to celebrate the wedding in their facility and was not involved in any legal recognition of the relationship. Members of the transpuan community, including Mami Vera, head of the Persatuan Waria Samarinda (Perwasa), also weighed in on the controversy.246 Vera emphasized that while living together (cohabitation) with male partners is common among transpuan, they are aware of the laws and understand the impossibility of formalizing such relationships through marriage under current legal frameworks. Pauline herself issued an apology, expressing regret over any distress caused by the controversy. The Chairman of the Indonesian Ulema Council (MUI) in East Kalimantan also 245 Although in Bahasa Indonesia the term “transpuan” is preferred, the subjects often identified themselves as waria instead. 246 Many elderly transwoman are often being called or called themselves “mami,” a stylized term for “mother” (Ibu). === [PDF page 189] === 189 reiterated that under Islamic law, marriage can only occur between individuals of the opposite sex in cases where same-sex marriages are rumored to have taken place. If marriage between transpuan and a man was indeed officiated, he noted, it was likely that the officiant was either misled or failed to exercise proper caution. Such a case highlighted the rigid structures governing marriage and gender roles in Indonesia and the limits of “performance.”247 Kodrat and Prestasi In Indonesia, the heteronormative family has always been central and tied to cultural scripts involving kodrat (a natural or destined role) and prestasi (achievement) informed by a mix of customs and religious beliefs. For women heads of household and members of the LGBT community, kodrat and prestasi go beyond individual accomplishment and determine their social acceptance and legal recognition. The expectation to conform to dominant societal norms remains central to their ability to navigate public life, sustain livelihoods, and claim rights. Women Heads of Household The marginalization of women and, particularly, women heads of household is symptomatic of underlying cultural scripts and its institutionalization by the state based on a certain model of family and household. Women have been confined to the role of wife and mother, with their contributions to family life framed as secondary to those of men. Even when they work, women’s earnings are often portrayed as merely supplementing the family, rather than as vital contributions. Before gender division of labor was supported by state ideology (Suryakusuma, 247 “Perkawinan Waria yang Menghebohkan,” Kompas, March 24, 1997, p. 22. === [PDF page 190] === 190 2011), women’s vulnerability and dependency on men were already naturalized through the notion of kodrat understood as natural (or destined) binary between the two sexes which, in Indonesia, imbricated with Muslim subjectivity and political identity (Jauhola, 2012). For women heads of household, prestasi is often linked to economic productivity and self-reliance. Their conditional recognition was evident during a National Awakening Day (Hari Kebangkitan Nasional) commemoration in Greater Malang, East Java, organized by PEKKA. The then-Minister of Women’s and Child Protection, Linda Amalia Sari, emphasized that women heads of household must actively engage with their communities: “They should not remain confined to their homes,” she stated, urging them to socialize, learn new skills, and become economically independent. 248 This call to action underscores how women’s social acceptance is contingent upon their perceived contributions, rather than being an inherent right. The same article (called “Menepis Stigma dengan Berdaya” or “Overcoming Stigma through Empowerment”) also highlights how these women must actively demonstrate their prestasi or be perceived as berdaya (empowered) in order to overcome the stigma attached to their status.249 Remaining outside of wedlock has historically been considered improper in Indonesia, where marriage has long been a communal arrangement designed to serve collective interests. Widows and Women heads of household must demonstrate their prestasi to overcome stigma of possible sexual excess as women-without-men. A study on the experience of widowhood among Balinese janda also found that some of the ways in which widows have successfully resisted stigma and gained recognition include gaining financial independence, fulfilling their roles as mothers and resourceful community members, as well as meeting social and religious 248 249 “Janda Harus Membuka Diri.” Kompas, May 17, 2010, p. 1. “Kesetaraan Jender: Menepis Stigma Dengan Berdaya.” Kompas, August 3, 2020, p. 1. === [PDF page 191] === 191 obligations (Parker & Creese, 2016). Their recognition as full citizens and inclusion remain conditional upon their ability to prove themselves as productive members of their families, communities, and the nation. LGBT Groups In the case of LGBT, kodrat and prestasi manifest in complex ways, particularly in relation to marriage and family. Both kodrat and prestasi translate into belonging as Boellstorff (2005) notes: The three keywords that link gay men’s discussions of selfhood and belonging are “good deeds” (prestasi), “society” (masyarakat), and “to be accepted” (diterima): through good deeds, society will accept them, but since they are not visible to society as gay men, their good deeds are not recognized as such, and without recognition belonging lies beyond reach. The notion of being “opened” to the whole world is nearly unthinkable for most gay men and appears primarily when discussing impossibilities: “The majority of gay men aren’t open as gay [terbuka sebagai gay] and able to say ‘oh, I’m gay, I can’t get married” (Boellstorff, 2005, p. 173) When it comes to marriage, it is widely understood that everyone, even those with samesex desires will eventually enter a heterosexual marriage (Blackwood, 2010; Boellstorff, 2005, 2006). Their subjectivities are grounded in the notion of kodrat (“given nature”). For example, Boellstorff (2005) notes that although tombois perform masculity and depart from normative femininity, they often aknowledged that in the end their “given nature” is that of a woman. While some individuals challenge heteronormative expectations, others navigate societal norms by entering heterosexual marriages while maintaining same-sex relationships in private. These marriages, whether out of familial obligation or societal pressure, illustrate the limited choices available to them within Indonesia’s rigid legal and cultural framework. A recurring theme in published personal testimonies is the emotional toll of these arrangements. In a letter to an === [PDF page 192] === 192 advice column, a housewife revealed that despite having a seemingly ideal life with a supportive husband and two successful sons, she has never loved her husband and has only ever been attracted to women. Her marriage, arranged to fulfill her family’s expectations, has left her emotionally unfulfilled. Although her husband accepts her reality and allows her to seek companionship elsewhere, she remains torn between her responsibilities as a mother and her longing for an intimate connection with a woman. 250 Her story illustrates how the perceived natural and objective reality of heterosexuality as well as women’s duties within the family constrain her choices and prevent them to enact her desires. The reliance on kodrat as a justification for exclusion continues to shape family policies, reinforcing structural inequalities that deny many Indonesians the right to live authentically and with dignity, while prestasi often becomes a condition of national belonging and recognition for both LGBT and women heads of household. Chapter Summary: Doing Heteronormativity The struggles of women heads of household are framed as a demonstration of their resilience in striving to provide for their family. Public discourse on women heads of household tends to focus on their role to support the family (or household members). It mostly discusses income level, asset ownership, family welfare and poverty, and how these women can fulfill the needs of their family or household members. 251 250 “Perkawinan Lesbian,” Kompas, November 28, 1999, p. 8. Several indicators are used to measure family well-being, including income level, household expenditure composition for food and non-food needs, education level, health status, housing conditions, and the household’s access to facilities. “Tantangan Perempuan Kepala Keluarga,” Kompas, August 5, 2020, p. 5. 251 === [PDF page 193] === 193 Women do not simply internalize roles prescribed by religions, state, or adat. Instead, they selectively engage with these frameworks, reinterpreting or resisting them to assert their own moral legitimacy (Platt et al., 2018) For example, women heads of household often invoke narratives of sacrifice and responsibility to justify their position as primary providers, framing their deviation from the heteronormative ideal as morally defensible (and also superior) within both religious and cultural frameworks. Their status as women heads of households is often presented as a consequence of circumstance rather than choice. As Nani Zulminarni of PEKKA explains in a published article, “women become single parents due to the death of a spouse, the migration of husbands for work, or because of polygamy that neglects the first wife.” 252 She adds that “some women also become single parents because they are unmarried and must support their parents.” 253 The narratives often portrayed these women’s situations as unfortunate products of circumstances such as a husband’s prolonged illness or extreme poverty, forcing them to become the sole breadwinners for their families. Unmarried mothers also assume this role, shouldering the dual burden of raising children and providing for extended family members, including aging parents. 254 Thus, their “undoing” gender is not something that is necessarily afforded by their status as providers. As Deutsch (2007, p. 120) argues, “resistance against gendered norms in day-to-day marital interactions may be essential for undoing gender.” Such resistance may not happen as men are still privileged, supported by cultural scripts, institutional practice, and arrangements which benefit them. 252 “Perempuan Jalani Peran Ganda,” Kompas, October 26, 2016, p. 24. Ibid. 254 “Pergulatan Pekka Menemukan Identitas,” Kompas, August 16, 2004, p. 45. 253 === [PDF page 194] === 194 PEKKA faces the delicate challenge of organizing women heads of households while carefully navigating the fine line between empowering women and avoiding accusations of promoting anti-marriage sentiments and, thus, risk being perceived as a threat. The notion of “doing gender” emphasizes the need for the taken-for-granted expressions of difference that appear natural to be continually reconstructed, so as to make it appear natural (Deutsch, 2007; West & Zimmerman, 1987). Nani Zulminarni explains that one of the most difficult obstacles is dismantling the belief that women are powerless without men, a notion deeply rooted in societal expectations that view marriage as a woman’s primary goal. 255 Adult women are legible within their role as wives and mothers. Thus, not having men or male counterpart may render them suspect in their community or even illegible during bureaucratic encounters.256 When women experience divorce, widowhood, or abandonment, their recognized status in society often becomes compromised. It must be noted, however, that widow as a group intersecting with women heads of household and also part of PEKKA face a distinct stigma due to their presumed sexuality. Widows often face stigma within their community. Ronsa Abdukis, a widow from North Maluku, for example, recounts the challenges she faces as a widow: After separating from her husband, Ronsa now raises her 4-year-old child alone. The father of her child no longer offers any support, leaving her solely responsible for her child's well-being. Her efforts to provide for her family by selling food are not met with sympathy and instead she often faces suspicion and gossip from her neighbors simply because of her widowhood: “Whenever I leave the house, people 255 256 Ibid. Personal communication with Mutiara Proehoeman, founder of Save Janda, 30 November 2022. === [PDF page 195] === 195 gossip about me.” The story Ronsa shared during a PEKKA national forum event highlights the stigma and isolation she must endure as a widow. 257 The stigma surrounding widowhood is not only external but also affects the internal dynamics of PEKKA. In the early stages of PEKKA, many women were reportedly hesitant to join due to societal taboos around widowhood, making them reluctant to publicly disclose their status. Additionally, the organization’s specific recruitment criteria have contributed to the slow growth in membership. Widows can only join within 40 days of their husband’s death, while divorced women must wait two years before becoming eligible.258 This policy aims to prevent divorce from being seen as an easy option and to ensure the organization doesn’t unintentionally contribute to rising divorce rates (or being accused of promoting divorce among women). One member mentioned that PEKKA might expand its services in the future to better meet its members’ needs, potentially also offering a matchmaking service, as some members express a desire to remarry. 259 Thus, asserting its pro-marriage and pro-family orientation. However, once remarried, a PEKKA member would be automatically removed from the organization. This policy is intended to ensure that PEKKA’s limited resources are directed toward those most in need and to avoid negative societal perceptions, such as the idea that widows might become second wives or mistresses. 260 These rules reflect adherence to a particular moral framework and its alignment with cultural narratives about women and sexuality in Indonesia. 257 “Kepala Keluarga: Pekka Menggugat Hak, Martabat, Dan Keadilan,” Kompas, November 5, 2007, p. 39. “PEKKA: Para Janda Pun Bangkit,” Kompas, April 28, 2008, p. 9. 259 Ibid. Also, personal communication with Romlawati, PEKKA co-director, 30 January 2023, and Fitria Villa Sahra, PEKKA co-director, 3 February, 2023. 260 Ibid. 258 === [PDF page 196] === 196 In a society where a woman’s position is often defined in relation to her duties toward her husband and family, widowhood becomes a symbol of social failure, marking these women as objects of stigma. Widows, whether through divorce or the death of a spouse, carry a heavy social burden. For many women, the fear of this stigma is so powerful that they choose to remain in abusive marriages, preferring the violence to the social ostracism associated with widowhood. Even when society shows greater respect to widows whose husbands have died, the expectations placed upon them remain restrictive. This is reflected in the ambivalence around “remarrying” among widows. On the one hand, these women are often discouraged from remarrying, as doing so would compromise the virtue of their fidelity to the husband and family. Nani Zulminarni of PEKKA similarly points out that remarriage is viewed as a sign of restlessness or inappropriate behavior, diverging from the traditional image of a virtuous woman. 261 On the other hand, they are also expected to remarry so as not be a threat, since their “sexual experience” with their husband makes them vulnerable to wayward sexual needs. Widows are often seen as a threat by other women, who fear that their husbands might be attracted to a young or attractive widow, while men frequently perceive widows as vulnerable and ripe for exploitation. 262 Studies show that much of the stigma on janda revolves around their presumed promiscuity (Parker, 2016; Parker & Creese, 2016). In addition, the proliferation of negative portrayals of widows in popular media (sinetron, pop songs, and contemporary films) has reinforced harmful stereotypes and further intensified the stigma attached to them (Yusuf, 2020). By presenting themselves in alignment with the notion of women’s virtue and the heteronormative ideal, women heads of household may mitigate this stigma and be recognized as proper citizens. 261 262 “PEKKA: Para Janda Pun Bangkit,” Kompas, April 28, 2008, p. 9. Ibid. === [PDF page 197] === 197 LGBT has a longer history, although their political identity as a presumed coherent political group is a relatively newer invention. Inspired by global movements and the visibility of LGBT rights advocacy (Altman 1996), Indonesian activists began advocating for their rights more openly. In the late 1990s, groups promoting sexual rights mobilized to demand recognition spurred by movements and discourses of human rights and, more specifically, discourse around HIV. Beginning in the 1990s, groups such as Lambda Indonesia, Kelompok Kerja Lesbian dan Gay Nusantara (KKLGN), and Himpunan Wadam Djakarta (HIWAD) started to actively promote their rights (Altman, 1996; Boellstorff, 2005, 2006). This shift disrupted the implicit social contract of invisibility, transforming LGBT existence from a manageable ambiguity into a perceived political and moral threat. The growing visibility of LGBT groups provoked the articulation of anti-LGBT discourse and the reinforcement of heteronormative ideals. Boellstorff (2004) argues that the convergence of longstanding heterosexism with “newly emergent political homophobia” occured after the fall of Suharto as anxieties over national identity and masculinity intersected with the increasing visibility of non-normative sexualities. By portraying LGBT individuals as threats to collective well-being (“family,” “national unity,” “national resilence”), the state can frame them as existing outside the boundaries of a “desirable” or “proper” citizen. Such a framing allows the state to justify their exclusionary measures and repression toward LGBT groups. While conservative Muslims often present themselves as the moral bastion and protectors of the nation (Chapter 3), Islam is not the sole driver nor the state ideology. Instead, I argue that the anti-LGBT backlash draws legitimacy from broader anxieties about threats to the heteronormative family, as the core of moral citizenship. Weiss (2013) and Blackwood (2005, === [PDF page 198] === 198 2007) argue that religious and cultural narratives about gender and family are mobilized in response to the visibility of LGBT rights claims, reinforcing binary gender roles as foundational to national stability. Measured against the heteronormative family ideal, LGBT groups are not just viewed as morally deviant but also endangering the moral order and national identity. Thus, as LGBT groups tend to fall outside to this dominant category of family, they cannot be easily fit into the category of people deserving state protection. In sum, the degree of resistance against the inclusion of these two groups correlates with the perceived extent to which their recognition would disrupt existing social hierarchies and the underlying moral order informed by long existing cultural script. Such divergence also challenges the assumptions that citizenship rights can be extended through incremental inclusion without altering the core structuring of society. Recognizing marginalized groups as rightful citizens protected by the constitution often requires unsettling the very boundaries of national identity and a disruption of the moral order. This dissertation also argues that understanding exclusion requires analytical focus from the marginalized groups themselves on the dominant structures whose coherence depends on the exclusion of particular groups. Recognition is not a neutral extension of constitutional protection but a contested political process that reveals the structural limits of national belonging and the state’s capacity to define who counts as its people. For both women heads of household and LGBT individuals, legitimacy and inclusion remain conditional, contingent upon how much they can fit into narratives of kodrat and prestasi and to what extent they can present themselves in alignment with the dominant narratives and the dominant category of heteronormative family. === [PDF page 199] === 199 Chapter Five Conclusion This dissertation examines how citizenship and national belonging in Indonesia are coconstitutive of the heteronormative family serving as a moral infrastructure—a normative ideal and governing technology (Chapter 1). The analysis began with debates surrounding the drafting of a unified marriage law for all Indonesians. From the late colonial through the post-Reformasi period, marriage and family become a locus where competing visions of modernity, gender relations, intimacy, and the nation-state as a political community are articulated (Chapter 2). The early debates on marriage law, which started in the 1920s, were echoed across regimes until the enactment of the 1974 Marriage Law. Once established, the moral infrastructure functions as a filter, allocating resources and legitimacy according to moral criteria. It embodies “moral classifications” in which values are encoded into technical forms that govern access, inclusion, and worth (see also Bowker & Star, 1999). In this context, the family serves as a locus within which citizens as rights bearer are figured in. Many state policies and practices, such as birth registration, public education, health insurance, and other forms of social benefit, rely on a particular definition of family. The Marriage Law did not just establish a legal uniformity; it naturalized a particular family model as foundational to national unity and moral order. Not only it legitimized state authority to intervene and govern intimate life, which previously fell within the authority of adat (customs) and religious institutions, but also formally ties ideas about “proper” citizens to how citizens can act in alignment with the ideal of the heteronormative family: to marry, to form a reproductive family within a privatized household, and to embody the roles embedded within that household. === [PDF page 200] === 200 This normative ideal informs material-technical arrangements which manifest in bureaucratic forms, identity documents, welfare eligibility mechanisms, and legal categories. Its persistence across regimes, constitutional changes, and political shifts demonstrates the durability of this infrastructure. The dissertation also demonstrates that such infrastructures become visible during moments of contestation or rupture—when uncertainties emerge about what is morally acceptable or when a crisis of meanings happens. The AILA judicial review petition and the proposed Family Resilience Bill exemplify such moments (Chapter 3). Both initiatives sought to criminalize any form of sex act outside heterosexual, monogamous marriage, and both deployed a rhetoric of crisis—portraying those who do not conform to heteronormative families as a threat to the nation. Through analysis of court transcripts, policy documents, and public discourse, this dissertation shows how these initiatives operationalized the heteronormative family as a measure for valuation of the “proper” citizen. The AILA petitioners’ invocation of “national moral decline,” “family breakdown,” and “national emergency” exemplified how moral anxieties about gender and sexuality were translated into rhetorical strategies aimed at re-entrenching the heterosexual family as the only proper site of intimacy and sexual expression. Similarly, the Family Resilience Bill framed the family life as needing state protection, thus justifying interventions such as surveillance, mandatory rehabilitation, and penalties. In both cases, the family served as a sign through which broader concerns about rights, identity, authority, and governance, were articulated. This dissertation explored the differentiated effects of this moral infrastructure through a comparative analysis of two disadvantaged minority groups: LGBT groups and women heads of household (Chapter 4). Both groups deviate from the heteronormative ideal, yet their trajectories === [PDF page 201] === 201 of exclusion and experience with the moral citizenship diverges. LGBT groups are rendered as threats whose identity and subjectivity threaten to destabilize the very categories (male/female, husband/wife, parent/child) upon which the moral infrastructure rests. Their calls for recognition and visibility are rarely responded with formal acceptance, but rather with anxiety, rejection, and, in some circumstances, state repression. The groups face not only social stigma but also extensive policing through shame, local regulations, and bureaucratic frameworks that deny them legibility as citizens. Their illegibility and exclusion are not incidental but intrinsic to a regime that defines citizenship through conformity to heterosexual familial norms. Women heads of household, by contrast, occupy a more ambivalent position. Although they do not conform to the heteronormative breadwinner/homemaker model, they can be integrated into state programs as vulnerable yet productive citizens. Their deviation is framed not as a moral disorder or challenge to the existing moral order. Rather, their existence is just but an unfortunate outcome requiring state assistance, particularly within the developmental paradigm of welfare policies. Their claims which resonate with dominant cultural scripts of sacrifice, resilience, and maternal responsibility, allow them to align themselves with the dominant narratives rather than disrupt them. As a result, their inclusion into welfare programs and civil society initiatives is more easily accommodated. As a form of conditional belonging, they are recognized insofar as their identity and act can be reconciled with the normative family ideal and mobilized within national development agendas. These diverging trajectories emphasize the core argument of this dissertation: that experiences of exclusion and inclusion among the citizenry are structured by a moral infrastructure that privileges the heteronormative family and differentiates groups based on their alignment with this normative ideal. Both groups have made use of the political openings === [PDF page 202] === 202 created by the 1998 Reformasi, particularly in the way these groups present their demands. Women heads of household have mobilized around their vulnerabilities, emphasizing the virtue of shouldering familial responsibilities, leveraging their position as “women-without-men.” The inclusion of one group necessarily requires a reconfiguration of the dominant group’s identity and privileges (Mink, 1995; Povinelli, 2002). Hence, the inclusion of groups like LGBT does not merely involve extending rights. It demands a rethinking of dominant categories of family, gender, and sexuality. Resistance against the inclusion of a category such as LGBT can be understood as a defense of dominant structures and the heteronormative family, which was already imbricated within the constructs of citizenship and national belonging in Indonesia. Recognizing groups whose mere existence challenges these normative structures is perceived as destabilizing to the categories through which society is organized and the state govern its citizens. This explains why LGBT groups and women heads of household differed in how much they can appeal to their citizenship status: the degree of resistance against their inclusion correlates with the perceived extent to which their recognition would disrupt existing social hierarchies and the underlying moral order informed by long existing cultural script. Such divergent also challenges the assumptions that citizenship rights can be extended through incremental inclusion without altering the core structuring of society. Recognizing marginalized groups as rightful citizens protected by the constitution often requires unsettling the very boundaries of national identity and a disruption of the moral order. This dissertation also argues that understanding exclusion requires analytical focus from the marginalized groups themselves on the dominant structures whose coherence depends on the exclusion of particular groups. Recognition is not a neutral extension of constitutional protection but a contested political === [PDF page 203] === 203 process that reveals the structural limits of national belonging and the state’s capacity to define who counts as its people. Thus, political debates over sexuality, gender, and family are not peripheral moral debates but central to struggles over how the nation-state itself is imagined. Moreover, they conditioned how debates in contemporary politics in Indonesia can be articulated. When making comparisons, the contrast between women heads of household and LGBT groups is also reflected in the asymmetry of data presented in this dissertation. While the state produces statistics, surveys, and administrative records on women heads of household— particularly related to bureaucratic category or classification, poverty-targeting programs, and other social provisons—there is virtually no equivalent state data on LGBT people. I treat this asymmetry not as a gap but as evidence of moral infrastructure at work. As previously discusses, it embodies moral classification which render visible some groups while deny legibility to others. In sum, this dissertation offers a contribution through the development of moral infrastructure as an analytical lens. First, it renders legible what often remains obscured: the cultural scripts embedded in state governing practice, legal codes, administrative categories, statistical systems, and welfare distribution mechanisms. By making the invisible visible, this framework shows how gendered and heteronormative assumptions, which were usually naturalized as common sense, surface most clearly in moments of contestation or breakdown, when their coherence is publicly challenged. Second, it reorients the study of citizenship by shifting analytical focus from disadvantaged minority groups alone to their dynamic with dominant norms, categories, and institutional arrangements whose stability depends on producing exclusion. Finally, the concept may extend beyond the Indonesian case. Moral infrastructure provides a lens for examining how states across diverse cultural and political contexts mobilize moralized === [PDF page 204] === 204 institutions (family, religion, and nation) to govern populations, authorize certain forms of intimacy and kinship, and delineate the boundaries of belonging. Through this lens, it opens pathways for research on the intimate, moral, dimension of citizenship and contemporary state governance. === [PDF page 205] === 205 References Abu-Lughod, L. (Ed.). (1998). Remaking women: Feminism and modernity in the Middle East. Princeton University Press. Adams, J., & Padamsee, T. (2001). 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