In an island nation where sea and sky meet in the distance, a girl cloaked in the shadows of disempowerment unravelled the essence of her intersectionality. A few questions were in her mind. What does it mean to be a woman in a family who believes men are better at leading? What does it mean to wear a cross necklace surrounded by those who devoutly praise Allah with their prayer beads? And what weight does it carry to live with the knowledge that all of her ancestors were systematically disempowered by the state?

I have firsthand experience of being: a woman, from a religious minority, and a child of parents coming from two oppressed ethnic groups in the nation.

When Moluccans Meet Javanese

Most of the people around the world are likely unfamiliar with the town of Cilacap. I would not blame them though; its significance only lasted during the colonial administration. Situated on the southern tip of Java – Indonesia’s most densely inhabited island – Cilacap used to be a strategic Dutch East Indies port. This city is where my great-grandfather first settled to build his family, bearing the last name Warella. His lineage traces back to Naku, a land nestled within the Moluccas - one of the Eastern provinces of Indonesia, a region infamously known to be disenfranchised by the state.

Hailing from the East, my family was easily identified among the native Javanese. My great-grandfather has a tall stature and notably darker skin than most, making him distinct in his community. Regrettably, discrimination inevitably loomed, rooted in the historical perception that those from Eastern Indonesia were branded as traitors to the Motherland. Although many Moluccans fought with the Royal Dutch East Indies Army (KNIL), not all supported colonial rule. Some, like my great-grandfather, dedicated their lives to the newly formed nation of Indonesia as soldiers. Even when Captain Westerling instigated the Angkatan Perang Ratu Adil (APRA) revolt with the help of ex-KNIL soldiers from the Moluccas (Groen, 1986), he had already been peacefully living in Cilacap for years.

Despite being separated from our homeland, we still frequently faced discrimination due to the dark colour skin we possessed. Derogatory names like "ugly," "smelly," and "uncivilised" are tragically common experiences for individuals with darker skin tones—not just Moluccans, butalso our siblings from Papua and East Nusa Tenggara. This discrimination is prevalent in Yogyakarta, the city where I am currently studying. Many people from the East face discrimination, particularly when renting a house or a flat (BBC News Indonesia, 2016). For instance, locals stereotype Eastern Indonesian students as people who are constantly fighting, drinking alcohol, and speaking loudly in the middle of the night. While some do these activities, not all Eastern should be victim to discrimination based on things that they may have not done — and will not do. From a sociological perspective, this prejudice is caused mainly by a perception of incompatibility. Yogyakarta, similar to Cilacap, has a social behaviour pattern strongly influenced by the Javanese.. It is ingrained in a collective mindset of ethics and etiquette (Errington, 2015). Gestures, speaking volume, and language usage should be moderated according to whom you are interacting with. Most Javanese expect others to speak in a polite manner, which is not familiar to people from Eastern Indonesia; their communication style is more straightforward, and they tend to speak in louder voices (Putri & Kiranantika, 2020). In their culture, loudness does not signify disrespect; it is seen as practical and easier to hear. Nonetheless, local Javanese disregard this fact and choose to further reinforce the long-standing stigma against people from the Eastern Provinces; it is a prejudice that has persisted for years.

“Hitam!”

“Black!”

That's what some people call Moluccans, Papuans, and East Nusa Tenggarans when they are seen walking on the street. Without provocation or reason, they blatantly use this hurtful and derogatory language. Luckily, I have rarely been called by any racist words. At first glance, I do not have the true skin colour of a Moluccan as my mother is a second-generation Chinese Indonesian and lighter skinned. However, this has caused discomfort among my family members. There are some memories from my childhood that I did not fully grasp at the time, but as I grew older, I realised how hurtful they were. Back in Cilacap, when I was still young, my father would take me to the market every weekend. I can confidently say that we both have similar facial structures, but my father has a darker skin tone. Occasionally, there were a few people—who might have been genuinely nice who asked my father:

“Loh jalan-jalan sama anak majikan, pak?”

“Oh, are you out with your employer's child, sir?"

“Sangat cantik anaknya! Orang tuanya mana?”

“She is very beautiful! Where are her parents?”

I could not begin to imagine how heartbreaking it must have been for him to hear those types of questions—because I know I would feel angry and deeply saddened if someone asked me the same. He was adept at hiding his feelings, however, I could still sense how small he felt when those words were spoken. In their eyes, it seemed improbable that my father, Yakob, with his distinctly Moluccan appearance, could have a child with lighter skin. As it turned out, they were mistaken. Out of his three children, only one (almost) physically resembles him.  

It is ironic that despite his Moluccan appearance, my father’s sensibility is Javanese - more Javanese than the Javanese themselves. He is soft-spoken, well-mannered, and even prefers traditional foods from Central Java. His taste buds reject any Eastern Indonesian foods, such as papeda or sayur pepaya. I could not blame him though; we have not set foot on our homeland since his birth. My siblings and I were raised in a Javanese community that paid significant attention to how we spoke, behaved, and respected elders. Without realising it, our Moluccan family had become assimilated into the local sociocultural configuration. I do not know the true reason, but as the saying goes:

“Dimana bumi dipijak, disitu langit dijunjung.”

“Where the earth is stepped on, there the sky is upheld.”

Does our history make us less Moluccans and more Javanese? No. Why did I tell it then? To illuminate the dynamic nature of Indonesia and its diverse cultures,a s it is essential to acknowledge how identities intersect across social, biological, cultural, geographical, and behavioural dimensions. The lesson is: do not judge the book by its cover.

This book is far from over. These traits—and the experience of oppression—remained unchanged after my father wed a second-generation Chinese Indonesian as his bride.

Chinese Indonesian: Less Indonesian?

The year is 1967—Soeharto has just risen to power following a violent tragedy that claimed the lives of Indonesian generals. During his rule, thousands of Chinese Indonesians fled the country, fearing persecution from the dictatorial regime. Amidst the exodus, my mother's parents - who had lived in the Dutch East Indies since the 1940s - chose to remain here. They had first embarked on the journey here when they were teenagers, with one goal: to find a better life.

In a way, they did find a better life—at least for their 10 children. My mother was the ninth, bearing a singular name, Mimi. During that period, the nation was implementing state-sponsored restrictions on Chinese traditions. This included a rule stipulating that children's names should not explicitly incorporate their Chinese family names. If you fail to follow, you might be imprisoned by the government on the basis of communist association. At that time, Soeharto was paranoid about all things related to communism; which sadly includes China and all diaspora living abroad (Wei, 2015). In his eyes, to be Chinese was synonymous with being a communist— like a shadow one-sidedly cast upon one’s identity. Chinese Indonesians declarations of  nationalism were often questioned by others, though it is bitterly ironic, considering my family’s roots run deep, predating the very birth of the nation itself.

Fast forward to 1998. The streets of Jakarta are full of students protesting against Soeharto’s 32-year dictatorial regime. This is the start of what we call Reformasi, the end of the New Order era. After hundreds of people and soldiers lost their lives, Soeharto finally resigned from the presidency. While hailed by many as a pivotal moment and a fresh start for democracy, I ask the question that matters most: at what cost?

More than 1000 people dead.
Hundreds of homes raided.
Thousands of Chinese women traumatized (Van Klinken, 1999).

Did we win? My mother and her family did. They weathered two notorious state-sponsored Chinese persecutions and lived to tell the tale. Tragically, many other Chinese Indonesians did not share the same fate. Some remain scattered across foreign lands, haunted by the traumas of their past. Even with the rise of democracy, the post-Soeharto era failed to bring solace to Chinese Indonesians. From being scapegoated by the Dutch, marginalised underSoeharto's regime, to enduring the brutality of the 1998 riots, they continue to grapple with a sense of being perceived as ‘less Indonesian.’

As it turned out, the reason was startlingly straightforward. For years, unbeknownst to us, an unwritten rule persisted—a legacy of the New Order's regime. It dictated that no individual of Chinese descent could ascend to power within a government institution. Oh well, it is not my mother’s fault to inherit such an ancestry. However, I cannot claim to have experienced oppression in the same way my mother did. Throughout her life, she was subject to the heartless mockery of others, hearing the most hurtful and disparaging remarks.

“Sipit! Buka matamu.”

“Slit-eyed! Open your eyes.”

“Pelit amat sih.”

“So stingy of you.”

Unlike her, I have never been subject to derogatory terms, simply because I do not fit neatly into the categories of Moluccan or Chinese. This makes me unfavourable among my mother’s Chinese family. They would have preferred sons, or at least daughters that physically look like them, and who would uphold their Chinese values. Our shared moments as a big family sometimes are not as beautiful as imagined. Tensions arise when somebody brings up the topic of skin colour or race. That is why I feel a deeper connection with my father's side of the family; we have so much in common. But to be frank, I was always confused when someone asked me whether I am a Moluccan or Chinese. The answer is: I am a blend of both, a living testament to Indonesia's rich diversity— and a by-product of two ethnic groups victimised by the entrenched system of oppression, intimidation, exclusion, violence, and racism. While I am not a direct victim of the system of oppression experienced by my parents, I faced my own set of discriminatory challenges.

Through Christ, I Triumphed

Despite having different ethnicities, my parents shared - not only a shared experience of oppression - but also a similar religious background. Here I am, their daughter, a Christian woman, residing in a predominantly Muslim nation.

To be honest, I consider myself fortunate not to face direct challenges in practicing my faith, while others have been persecuted. For instance, just days before I submitted this essay, a Catholic rosary prayer group in one of the neighbourhoods in Banten was forcibly disbanded by residents, citing disturbances caused by loud devotions (BBC News Indonesia, 2024). On the other hand, a concerning trend has emerged in Indonesia, marked by repeated instances of open rejection of non-Muslim places of worship. One case was from East Jakarta, where a Christian community waited for years before finally receiving clearance to establish a church (Tehputri, 2019). The reason behind all of these:         

“This is a Muslim-majority area,” a phrase often heard from intolerant groups.

Technically, the whole country is dominated by Muslims—does it mean any of us may not practice our faith? This phenomenon represents a display of "majority power," often tacitly condoned by the state. To be fair, the government is not the only player in this game of intolerance; even my closest of friends sometimes become unwitting accomplices.

“Asyhadu…”

In high school, my friends often teased me to convert to Islam, urging me to recite the Shahada, or the Islamic creed. For them, these were harmless jokes. For me, it was an attack on my faith. No, I am not exaggerating the issue—I aim to break these insensitive habits. If no one steps up to stop this, more people will eventually see it as acceptable. This process of normalisation further perpetuates the imbalanced power dynamics among the religious groups. Surprisingly (not really), these practices are also supported by the educational institutions that teach the next generation of Indonesians. The teachers have never said anything about these jokes. It is as if they tacitly approve.  

Due to the intolerance practiced by educational institutions, one of my high school friends was deeply traumatised. She vowed never to set foot in a public school dominated by Muslim students again. Why? She was targeted and humiliated in front of all her classmates, all because she could not recite one of the Islamic Surah. The thing is — she is a devoted Christian.  Similarly, I too have experienced the pressure to assimilate into the majority culture.

It is important to note that I was enrolled in a public school, which is supposed to be inclusive of all religions, unlike private schools that often enforce a specific religious background. Turns out, the schools lie. During orientation, we were asked to wear our junior high uniforms. On the first day, I was told to change because my skirt was deemed to be showing aurat, which is forbidden in Islam. Coming from a Catholic school where knee-length skirts are acceptable, I was shocked. Similarly, in Yogyakarta, female students were not only required to wear long skirts but also forced to wear hijabs to cover their heads (Firdaus, 2022). I was saddened by the fact that our education plays a role in fostering intolerance among the students, violating what our founding fathers agreed upon: Bhinneka Tunggal Ika which means “different but one.”

She/Her: The Epilogue

Did anyone notice that most cases of discrimination I have mentioned throughout this piece involve women (including biological females such as myself )?

Chinese women traumatized.
A female student humiliated.
Me disempowered.

A sad but widely acknowledged fact is women and biological females are the most disproportionately effected groups in society. We are often compelled to adhere to rules imposed by an invisible patriarchal rule.

Take the example of my own life: from a young age, I was bombarded with countless expectations about how I should achieve success. These expectations were rooted in traditional gender roles, pressuring me to excel academically and professionally while still conforming to societal norms for women. This dual burden has shaped my understanding of gender inequality and fuelled my desire to challenge these deeply ingrained biases.

I have refused to carry my family’s patriarchal biases and endured in striving towards my dream of studying. As a fruitful outcome of my will, it only took me two years to graduate from high school with flying colours. Despite all the challenges, I also managed to secure admission to study international relations at Universitas Gadjah Mada, one of the most competitive schools in the country. Not to mention a well-maintained GPA above cumlaude prerequisite through persistently studying and sleepless nights.

“High-achiever,” they said innumerable times.

While this validates my achievements and successes, the term high achiever has become an internalised expectation in my community. Every success I achieve only raises the bar higher and higher by others—mostly my parents. It seems that for a woman to be deemed worthy of praise, she must excel to the utmost degree imaginable. What's missing from everyone's viewpoint is the fact that I did not only break my limits as a woman but also as a Christian and a child with Moluccan-Chinese heritage. I inherited all the oppressions, experienced disempowerment, and survived society's discriminatory behaviours towards the marginalised.

But here I am now, empowered.