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Putri Sejati

Indonesia celebrates the life of its favourite feminist every April 21st. I live in fear of not doing enough to make the badasses in this photograph proud.

Foreign Policy: The Things They Carried: The Congolese Rebel

Least inane “What’s in my bag” feature on the internet! Highlights: Obama flashlight (“lightweight for combat”), King James Bible (“Every Sunday when I’m not at war, I’m in church”), pool table (???)

Ya eloh

Some people live by a National Geographic-type credo where they challenge themselves to do one thing every day that scares them; I’m lazy, and Indonesian to boot, so I make things easy on myself by fulfilling a credo of learning one mind-blowing thing every day about my magical “government.” Here’s one I found yesterday, about an elite naval unit:

The unit is made up entirely of men, after a change in policy in 1988, which excluded women from serving in Kesatuan Gurita. Prior to the policy change women and men served side by side. The change in policy, which was controversial at the time and continues to spark controversy in Indonesia from time to time, stemmed from a pregnancy that occurred in 1986 in one of the women serving in the unit. While there was no formal policy forbidding frateranization between soldiers, leadership in the Indonesian Navy felt that the temptation was too great to have men and women serving together, bunking side by side, and in total seclusion. The leadership also felt that the risk of fetal harm was too great and indicated in an official statement that “the value of a non-terrorist human life, especially one that has yet to sin, is too great to compromise in the world of explosives, bio-chemical terror agents, and elements that we may not even know yet.” There was a significant outcry from the 132 women who were in the unit and not pregnant, as they had to be reassigned to different areas within the military. One female soldier, who appeared on television without releasing her identity, said, “We are trained couter-terrorism agents. We take precautions everywhere we go, in every activity. I wear three weapons when I go to the grocery store. The fact that this (expletive deleted) couldn’t take the simple and obvious precation to prevent pregnancy when she was just scratching an itch is disappointing. That I have to give up a position I have trained my entire life for because two people were thinking with parts other than their brains is infuriating.”

Broken social scene

Stop and take a minute to think about the epithet applied to you when a friend introduces you to someone new at parties (“This is x, and she __________.”). Do the epithets vary from party to party, or are they fairly consistent? Do the epithets describe the observable circumstances surrounding your existence as an individual human being, or are they wholly provisory to your relationship with your mutual friend (“This is x, and I’ve known her since we were kids.”)? Do your friend’s perceived attributes of you accurately represent you, or the image you set out to manifest when placed in a social situation? 

The most charitable trope that anyone has given me is this: “This is D, she likes Star Wars and football.” Admittedly not a great thing to put on your social calling card, but far less incendiary than my high school-era attribute: “This is D, she really likes Karl Marx.” 

Looks - personality - intelligence

You know how someone with good looks becomes even more beautiful once you learn they have a great personality?

Does this happen because you will dismiss (even excuse) someone that beautiful for having the intellectual prowess and interpersonal appeal of a damp sponge?

Safety demonstration

The flight was plagued by atmospheric conditions so unfavourable that the Germans seated next to me began projecting unease (my personal rule of thumb about flying: when the Germans get nervous, it’s perfectly okay for anyone else to lose their shit). The fuselage rattles violently and my brain is seized by a visualization of my imminent death: gnarled metal, broken glass, the unsympathetic phone call from the Indonesian embassy to my parents. The fuselage suddenly rolls, my stomach drops, and I start praying to the Abrahamic god before remembering that I don’t believe in God.

When we safely (happily) land with my agnosticism intact, I meet up with a friend for drinks and I tell him about my high-altitude ordeal. “You need to stop watching Air Crash Investigation,” he helpfully suggests.

“But what if I die never knowing what killed me?”

He raises his empty glass to a nearby waiter, wordlessly indicating for another beer. “Do you really want to spend the last few seconds of your life thinking about faulty wiring? Or explosive decompression? You’re dying. Why does it matter how you die? You should be more concerned about how you lived.”

I trace my finger around the rim of my empty glass. “You’re so profound when you drink,” I sneer.

“I’d rather die of alcohol poisoning than of a plane crash. Do you want another beer too?”

Mingalaba

You learn a lot about people when you expose them to the dry, summertime heat of Mandalay. At the hostel, my mild-mannered travel partner steps out of the shower to apply sunblock and lets loose a minor gripe disguised as scientific observation: “This mirror is hung at a fucking weird height. I can see my balls but I can’t see my face.”

You also learn a lot about yourself on a rodent-infested thirty-hour train ride in a carriage with damp seats and no suspension system. I am pleasant for most of the trip until we finally reach the station, where the dry summertime heat and blaring throng of sweaty humanity have driven me to take on the persona of a leaky rectum.

I approach my travel partner later that evening, shoulders slumped with childlike guilt to sheepishly apologise for my behaviour; he just hmms and shrugs. “It’s okay,” he says, “You were perfect.”

I am not accustomed to this sort of display of human kindness following my display of human acrimony, and all I do is sit in quiet amazement while my heart promptly proceeds to explode.

Next

Living and working in Jakarta has been hugely revelatory re: the mating habits of my peers. A good number of them married young (~21-23), multiplied with no regard for financial repercussions, and—in a twist ending that sent shock waves through every iota of my being—live with their parents and/or in-laws. 

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If you’ve ever been a single Southeast Asian woman of marriageable age, then there is a very high chance that you will have also been subjected to the classic onslaught of “Where is your boyfriend?/Why don’t you have one?/Why won’t you just get married?” line of questioning from family members with a propensity for offering unsolicited grief.

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On a flight out of the city, my mother turns to me and says , “You know XYZ? He likes you, I can tell. Why don’t you return his feelings in kind?”

As if possessed by the spirit of an eight year-old boy, I tap the noise-canceling headphones sealed over my ears dramatically mouth, “I CAN’T HEAR YOU.”

She rolls her eyes and turns her head the other way to sleep. I hit PLAY on my iPod and nearly choke on my own tongue: the song that starts playing is Kimbra’s ferociously catchy but quietly terrifying Settle Down. Ha-fucking-ha, universe. Ha ha. My fingers fumble over the touchscreen display. NEXT, I beg quietly. NEXT NEXT NEXT NEXT NEXT.