Women, Gendered Activism
and Indonesia's Anti-Pornography Bill
Pam Allen
Introduction
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Commonly known by its acronym RUU-APP, Indonesia's controversial anti-pornography bill is still under consideration by parliament, five years after being introduced there. This article is an updated version of my earlier article 'Challenging diversity?: Indonesia's anti-pornography bill,'[1] which comprised a broad discussion of responses to the bill by women, artists and minority ethnic groups in Indonesia. In the present article I focus on and amplify the responses to the bill by women from across the spectrum of Indonesian society. I draw on media reports and secondary sources that have documented responses by women and women's organisations to the bill. My analysis is contextualised within a broader discussion of the impact of democratisation on the status of women in the post-Suharto era (1998–2008) and the emergence of hundreds of new NGOs in Indonesia since the fall of Suharto. It is not my purpose to make a judgment about the current state of women's organisations per se in Indonesia, beyond their engagement with the bill. I do, however, make some observations about what the intensive involvement by women in resistance to the bill might suggest about the role of women in public life in Indonesia since the fall of Suharto. Resistance to the bill can provide a lens through which to read the involvement of women in other political and social developments in the last decade, including, for example, those covered in the other articles in this issue. Barbara Hatley's article, 'Hearing Women's Voices, Contesting Women's Bodies in Post New Order Indonesia,' in Issue 16 of Intersections illustrates the centrality of the bill, and response to it, in discussions of the 'public presence of women' in Indonesia.
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Marianna Amiruddin suggests, compellingly, that the significance of the bill for women lies not so much in its content, but rather in the opportunity it has provided to women to become publicly engaged in a discourse that directly involves them and their bodies. Amiruddin regards this as a positive dimension of what has otherwise been seen as a negative and discriminatory phenomenon. She points out that the RUU-APP is the first regulatory document in which women's bodies are overtly identified as being the problem, the cause of moral degradation. This should be seen as an opportunity, however—the chance for women to participate in public discourse, to 'raise their voices and shout their defiance.'[2] As such, resistance to the RUU-APP by women can be read as a metaphor for their concerns about the status of women in post-Suharto Indonesia.
Women's organisations and activism in the post-New Order period
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The most well-known women's organisation during Suharto's New Order was the conservative Dharma Wanita, the State-sponsored organisation of wives of civil servants. Despite its conservatism and its allegiance to the State, however, Dharma Wanita in fact issued one of the first exhortations to Suharto to step down, in April 1998; a symbolically important step for women's organisations in Indonesia in general.[3] Kathy Robinson and Sharon Bessell have illustrated how the dominant ideology of the late New Order was frequently used creatively by activists in a counter-hegemonic twist. They discuss the events of February 1997 when activist women formed a group called Suara Ibu Pedulu (SIP, Voice of Concerned Mothers) to protest the negative effects of the monetary crisis on women and children. Three months before the fall of Suharto on 21 May 1998, SIP held a peaceful 'milk demonstration' at the Hotel Indonesia roundabout—a highly visible and highly-charged site in Jakarta. This was the first time since the beginning of the New Order that a women's group had staged public protest against the government, and the arrest of its leaders Karlina Leksono and Gadis Arivia attracted widespread media attention.[4]
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Julia Suryakusuma describes Indonesian women as 'pioneers of democratisation,' emboldened to take advantage of the democratic spaces that opened up with the fall of Suharto[5]—leading to what Melani Budianta calls 'one of the most raucous periods of identity politics in Indonesian history.'[6] As Rachel Rinaldo points out, what followed was the opening up of space for a 'diversity of images and representations.'[7] Suryakusuma reminds us that the conspicuousness of women was an important part of that diversity. Women rapidly became prominent in a variety of fields—as lawyers, activists, academics, journalists, artists and writers, becoming vocal in opposition to state violence, rising prices and ethnic intolerance, and in support of inter-faith dialogue, new political organisations and political reform.[8] Along with the growth in the number of media outlets, political parties and the push towards more democratic and transparent governance, the size and number of NGOs in Indonesia increased dramatically in the early years of reformasi Indonesia. In the mid-nineties there were 7000 registered NGOs in Indonesia; by 2002 this had almost doubled to 13,500.[9]
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Given the conspicuousness of women referred to by Suryakusuma, it is hardly surprising, then, that there was a high level of involvement of women in Indonesian NGOs.[10] Since the fall of Suharto and since the introduction of regional autonomy legislation in 2001 in particular, a diverse range of non-profit organisations have become involved in grass-roots activism. This has included organisations with a particular focus on the rights of women, such as LBH-APIK (Lembaga Bantuan Hukum Asosiasi Perempuan Indonesia Untuk Keadilan), the Indonesian Women's Association for Justice, founded in 1995 by the high-profile lawyer (and now Member of Parliament) Nursyabani Katjasungkana, which provides legal aid for women. Another prominent NGO dedicated to improving women's rights is Komnas Perempuan (Komisi Nasional Anti Kekerasan Terhadap Perempuan), National Committee on Violence against Women, an independent National Commission aiming to eliminate of all forms of violence against women in Indonesia. Komnas Perempuan was established after the so-called 'May Tragedy' of 1998, three days of rioting, looting, burning, killing and rape, targeting Chinese-Indonesians in Jakarta and other cities. KPI (Koalisi Perempuan Indonesia), Indonesian Women's Coalition, was also established in May 1998 by women activists in Jakarta, with one of its stated aims being to increase political participation and representation for women. SPEK-HAM, Women's Solidarity for Humanity and Human Rights, provides case assistance, policy advocacy and awareness raising activities for women. With a focus on human trafficking, SPEK-HAM works with a network of organisations in Indonesia raising awareness about domestic workers sent abroad to become housemaids.[11]
As Kim Andren points out, leading women activists from NGOs such as these have become important public figures in Indonesia, particularly those who have begun to speak out against what is perceived as creeping Islamic conservatism.[12] Part of that outspokenness in the last few years has been in response to the RUU-APP.
RUU-APP
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In its earliest version in 2003 the RUU-APP Bill was relatively uncontroversial, being similar in content to pornography legislation elsewhere. (Pornography was defined as 'a substance in the media or a tool of communication that is made for the purpose of conveying concepts that exploit sex, obscenity and/or erotica.'[13]) Article 3 of the bill sets out its twofold aim 'to uphold and revere the dignity and values of a faithful and devout people in order to create a society that honours God Almighty' and 'to protect, guide and provide moral and ethical instruction to society.'[14] About a third of its original articles were devoted to listing the prohibitions, which covered material and behaviour in books, newspapers, magazines, videos, CDs, DVDs, cassettes, film, radio, television, SMS, telephone, multimedia messaging service, the Internet, letters, pamphlets, leaflets, booklets, posters, song lyrics, poetry, illustrations, photographs and paintings.
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The controversy began when Zain Badjeber, chair of the Legislation Council of Parliament, declared that the bill did not go far enough, leading to the 2004 incorporation into it of legislation against what the lawmakers called 'pornoaction' (pornoaksi in Indonesian). Pornoaksi was defined as 'an action, in public, that exploits sex, obscenity and/or erotica'.[15] Most Indonesians support legislation that controls the production and distribution of pornographic materials (legislation that is in fact already in place in Indonesia's Criminal Code and in laws governing the press, the film industry, broadcasting, domestic violence and child protection, albeit with some articles vaguely worded.[16]) However, the bill caused considerable controversy because of its broad definition of what constitutes pornography and, in particular, pornoaction. As well as banning activities such as depicting or selling products that depict necrophilia and paedophilia, the bill banned the depiction of and public engagement in a wide range of less sinister activities, including kissing on the lips and erotic dancing in public. Article 25, which prohibited revealing 'certain sensual parts of the body' (defined as genitals, thighs, buttocks, navel and any part of a woman's breasts),[17] caused the most controversy, being widely interpreted as restricting what a woman may wear in public. The penalties set out in early versions of the bill included up to twelve years imprisonment and a fine of up to Rp 2 billion (approx $AU288,000) for public nudity; up to five years imprisonment and a fine of up to Rp 500 million (approx $AU72,000) for kissing on the lips in public; up to seven years imprisonment and a fine of up to Rp 750 million (approx $AU108,000) for erotic dancing in public and up to fifteen years imprisonment and a fine of up to Rp 2.5 billion (approx $AU361,000) for distributing material depicting sexual activity.[18]
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However, discussion of the bill was still largely contained within the walls of the parliament; it received little media or public attention. It was not until 2005, when public hearings began to be held about the bill, that the public was mobilised, leading to widespread demonstrations throughout 2006 in support of and against the proposed legistation. In June 2006, the Partai Demokrasi Indonesia Perjuangan (PDI-P, Indonesian Democratic Party of Struggle) threatened to walk out of deliberations on the bill, demanding that it be revised to focus on the production and distribution of pornographic materials, rather than dictating public behaviour. This call was strongly rejected by Islamic organisations such as the Aliansi Ummat Jawa Barat (West Java Muslim Alliance). While conceding that in its original form the bill was 'rife with inconsistencies' and 'denied people's basic human rights' and while stating that the revisions would focus on the production and distribution of pornographic materials rather than restricting individual behaviour, Partai Kesejahteraan Sosial (PKS, the Prosperous Justice Party), the strongest supporter of the bill in parliament, nonetheless insisted that any changes would be merely an 'amendment, not an overhaul.'[19]
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A new version of the bill was completed by September 2006, followed by media reports of the existence of various versions of the bill. By the end of 2006, the pornoaksi sections of the bill had largely been removed, and the level of public debate about it began to subside. In January 2007, the amended version of the bill was revealed to the public but deliberations on it did not begin in parliament until September 2007. Political commentators such as Stephen Sherlock suggest that it now seems unlikely that the bill will be passed before the elections of 2009.[20] The bill had been drawn up and subsequently shelved in the 1990s. It is difficult to identify the motive behind its rather sudden resurrection and tabling in August 2005. As Sherlock points out, the context in which it rather suddenly became relevant again was the perception that the new freedoms of the post-Suharto period had given rise to an increase in the availability of pornography and overt expressions of sexuality in the media, entertainment and advertising.[21]
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Needless to say, theories as to the reasons for the bill's re-emergence abound, a popular one being that President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono requested that the bill be put back on the table after he became disturbed by the sight of women's navels and erotic dancing on television. Many Indonesians trace the genesis of the bill to the antics of the popular dangdut singer and dancer Inul Daratista, whose gyrating hips have entertained and outraged the nation since the early 2000s. In 2003, at the height of, and in direct response to the Inul scandal, the Muslim scholar and activist Solahuddin Wahid (brother of former President Abdurrahman 'Gus Dur' Wahid) called for a 'special law regulating pornography.'[22] Hence the view of some that Inul's 'pelvic gyrations are propelling Indonesia's anti-pornography Bill,'[23] even reached as far as the House of Representatives, where, as reported in the Jakarta Post [24] (11 February 2006), her arch rival (male) dangdut star, the devout Muslim Rhoma Irama, held the floor for fifteen minutes, criticising Inul's erotic dance moves.[25]
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The official Government line has been that the bill is designed to protect women—an argument that has been greeted with considerable scepticism, however, from many women's groups. A widely-held view is that the re-emergence of the bill, instigated by Muslim Members of Parliament, was driven by militant Islamic interests such as the Front Pembela Islam (FPI, Islamic Defenders Front), which campaigns for Islamic law and mobilises protestors against purported violators of Islamic rules. Many non-Muslims were concerned that the bill represented an attempt to introduce Islamic law into the Constitution. Others saw the revival of the bill as a strategy by sitting members of parliament to win the hearts and minds of Muslim voters in the lead-up to the 2009 election. This is something of a tall order, given the multi-faceted nature of Islam in Indonesia. At the time of the re-introduction of the bill into parliament, Indonesia was experiencing a rise in conservative Islam, meaning, as Suryakusuma points out that there are many 'streams' of Islam in Indonesia—from the 'Osama bin Laden look-alikes' to JIL, Jaringan Islam Liberal, the Network of Liberal Muslims.[26] The very terms 'Islam' and 'Muslim' in the Indonesian context, therefore, are highly contested.
Women and the bill
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That the role, status and—arguably—interests of women were integral to the re-emergence of the bill is evidenced in the fact that during the Habibie and Wahid regimes drafts of the bill apparently came from the Ministry of Women's Empowerment.[27] Attempts to promote the bill were frequently couched in appeals to the need to protect women. As cited in the Jakarta Post, one lawmaker, faced with public protest at the bill, asked in exasperation, 'What is it that women want?' adding 'We're trying to protect you!'[28]
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Many Indonesian women (including Muslim women) see the bill as part of a growing tendency to introduce state discrimination against women. Many also believe the bill, if it becomes law, will in fact increase violence against women. Several cities and local governments in Indonesia have already introduced bylaws regulating how women should act and dress. Indonesian feminists, angry that implicit in the bill is the notion that women are the prime cause of national moral decay, have referred to the 'Talibanisation' of Indonesian society, a refrain also taken up by the 'heretic' Islamic group Ahmadiyah. NGOs with a focus on women took a strong lead in expressing opposition to the bill, attacking it from many angles. Srikandi Demokrasi Indonesia, for example, a Jakarta-based NGO whose vision is the 'creation of a democratic Indonesian society that is socially just, pluralistic, peaceful, safe and tolerant by promoting basic human rights,'[29] declared through its spokesperson, Nuraini, that the bill derives from the commodification of women as objects that need to be legally contained.
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Perhaps the most publicised and the most colourful challenge to the bill occurred on International Women's Day in 2006, which was marked by a huge parade in Jakarta and widespread protests against the bill. The parade was organised by a group known as the Aliansi Bhinneka Tunggal Ika (the Diverse but One Alliance), whose committee contained a number of high-profile women, including its chairwoman Shinta Nuriyah Wahid, the wife of former president Abdurrahman Wahid (a devout Muslim), movie director Nia Dinata, celebrity writer Ayu Utami and playwright Ratna Sarumpaet. The clear message from the Alliance was that the bill was an attempt to enforce Islamic laws and codes of conduct in Indonesia—an agenda described by Shinta as 'an act of treason' against the Pancasila, which preserves the cultural and religious diversity of the nation and was deliberately designed by Indonesia's first president Sukarno to prevent the country from becoming an Islamic state. Another important NGO to make its mark in the public protest against the bill was Aliansi Mawar Putih (the White Rose Alliance), founded by the well-known journalist and academic, Gadis Arivia. The Alliance urged people to express opposition to the bill and funded the placement of advertisements announcing their stand in the media.
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Elsewhere in Indonesia, too, protesters demonstrated against the bill. In Bali, around one hundred activists from the AKR (Aliansi Kebangkitan Rakyat) People's Awakening Alliance, joined the well-known actor Rieke 'Oneng' Diah Pitaloka in a rally opposing the bill. Dita Indah Sari has observed that such mass public mobilisation in response to an issue pertaining to women is a rare thing in Indonesia. Previously, as she points out, women have chosen more 'conventional' strategies such as legal advocacy, education and cooperation, in order to initiate change.[30]
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There was also plenty of public support for the bill. However, what is notable about demonstrations in support of the bill is that, almost exclusively, women's voices were subsumed in public rallies organised by Islamic organisations and NGOs. In other words, while women wishing to express opposition to the bill could join forces with any of the secular NGOs mentioned above (many of whose members are Muslim), by and large support for it came under the banner of Islam. As evidenced in the leadership of the NGOs opposing the bill, and in the composition of the rallies, opposition to the bill was highly gendered. Support for it was largely ungendered. While, as Lies Marcoes demonstrates, recently established non-governmental Islamic women's organisations do address gender-related issues, including public and domestic violence, reproductive health and sexuality and access to economic resources and education, those organisations, affiliated as they often are with the larger Islamic organisations mentioned below, have not been as vocal in support of or in opposition to the bill as have their secular counterparts.[31]
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Soon after the 2006 Women's Day rally, a large march in favour of the RUU APP was organised and attended by members of a number of Islamic parties and groups, including MUI (Majelis Ulama Indonesia), Muhammadiyah, NU (Nahdlatul Ulama), Persis (Persatuan Islam), HTI (Hizbut Tahrir Indonesia), Al Irsyad, IKADI (Ikatan Da'i Indonesia), FBR (Forum Betawi Rempug), PKS (Partai Keadilan Sejahtera), DDII (Dewan Dakwah Islamiyah Indonesia), FPI (Front Pembela Islam) and BKMT (Badan Kontak Majelis Taklim). While well-attended, numbers at the march fell significantly short of the sejuta umat—a million of the faithful—anticipated by the organisers. Estimates put the number of attendees at 10,000. Many of those were women; the impression gained is that they attended, however, representing their faith rather than their gender. Some of the most vocal support for the bill, along with vitriolic criticism of its detractors, came from the Forum Betawi Rembug (FBR, the Betawi Brotherhood Forum). In a live broadcast on Metro TV, chairman Fadloli el Muhir declared that women participating in the rally against the bill were 'evil, wretched women who did not have good morals.'
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Much press coverage was given to the issue of local councils carrying out 'pre-emptive strikes,' under regional autonomy provisions, through the implementation of by-laws that seem to draw on the RUU-APP, including the highly publicised by-law in the regency of Tangerang—a satellite city of Jakarta—which decrees: 'Anyone who by virtue of their suspicious attitude or behaviour creates the impression that he/she/they are prostitutes are forbidden from being in public streets, squares, places of accommodation, hotels, boarding houses, rental accommodation, coffee shops, places of entertainment, performance venues, street corners or alleys or other places in the Region.' The upshot of this included a number of arbitrary arrests, including the arrest of women buying bottled tea at a roadside stall, and of another who was waiting for her husband at a hotel. (Many residents of Tangerang are women who work night shift.) The most well-documented case was that of a pregnant woman, Lilis Lindawati, who was arrested by 'public order officials' at about 8 p.m. as she boarded local transport on her way home from her waitressing job. She was subsequently charged with being a prostitute (the clinching evidence being that she was carrying lipstick in her handbag), fined Rp 300,000 (about $AU50) and detained for four days. The above incidents have led many women to respond with incredulity that a community's morality and crime rate could be perceived to hinge so crucially on the appearance and decorum of women, that they must be placed under a curfew and their attire regulated.
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Such actions, which to some suggested the introduction of shar'iah law by stealth, have since been repeated in regional regulations (peraturan daerah, usually abbreviated to perda) in other parts of Indonesia. Suryakusuma refers to a 'wave of attempts' to introduce conservative interpretations of adat and shar'iah-derived moral norms through regional regulations at the level of the province, district and sub-district.[32] Budianta notes the proposal by the West Sumatra provincial legislature in early 2001 of a bill imposing a curfew on women between 10 p.m. to 6 a.m., unless they are accompanied by their muhrim, the Islamic term for 'close (male) relative.[33] The bill was aimed at 'curbing immoral activities' and would prohibit women's attire that could 'arouse male sexual desire.' While the bill was eventually dropped, city councils in Padang Pariaman (West Sumatra), Bengkulu (South Sumatra), Batam (Riau), Aceh and Tasikmalaya (West Java) already have bylaws in place that require Muslim women to wear Islamic dress in public places. In South Sulawesi female civil servants must wear Islamic attire, female high school students must wear long skirts, and government employees must be able to read and write Arabic. Aceh has been using sha'riah courts since it was granted special autonomy in 2002, and there is support for the Islamic court to be used for non-Muslims as well. Suryakusuma cites examples of women in Aceh having their hair cut off for failing to wear a Muslim head scarf, and being caned for being caught in public with a man other than their husband. Suryakusuma's conclusion is that perda in post-Suharto Indonesia are having the same marginalising and oppressive impact on women as State control of women did under Suharto.[34]
Concluding remarks
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This article has focused on the public response by Indonesian women to the apparent new apparatus of state oppression in the form of perda and shar'iah-derived bills such as the RUU-APP. The public expression of support for and opposition to the RUU-APP was made possible not only by the new freedoms delivered to Indonesian society in general and women in particular after the resignation of Suharto, but also, paradoxically, by the very apparatus of the New Order, where restrictions on public debate led to creative ways of expressing resistance. As Budianta points out, it is erroneous to assume that women's everyday praxis during the New Order was completely contained by the state. On the contrary, women, like many other citizens, found sites for resistance precisely within the structures of the New Order.[35] The challenge to oppressive societal structures documented in this article represents a continuation of that earlier resistance. As Mayling Oey-Gardiner triumphantly suggests in the title of her book chapter, 'And the winner is...Indonesian women in public life,' viewed from this perspective, Indonesian women in public life can indeed be seen as 'winners.'[36]
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My article raises a number of questions that warrant further investigation. While the RUU-APP has undergone a series of transformations since it was first introduced into parliament, the extent to which those changes may have been influenced by the activities of women's activist groups is as yet unclear. While I have documented a rapid growth in the number of NGOs involving women and engaging with gender-related issues in the last decade, further research is needed to gauge whether those groups have deliberately positioned or re-positioned themselves in line with resistance to the RUU-APP—whether, in other words, the RUU-APP has become a defining discourse in gender politics in Indonesia.
Postscript
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The anti-pornography bill passed into legislation in on 30 October 2008, after this article was written. While some women and women's groups have welcomed the new law, many are continuing their protest about its implications for women's rights. A play about the law by the high-profile writer Ayu Utami, Sidang Susila ('Susila's Trial') has performed to large and vocal audiences in Jakarta. Clearly the opposition to the bill will not subside now that it has been formalised into legislation.[37]
Endnotes
[1] Pam Allen, 'Challenging diversity?: Indonesia's anti-pornography bill,' in Asian Studies Review, vol. 31, no. 2 (June 2007):101–15.
[2] Marianna Amiruddin, 'Kapan lagi perempuan angkat bicara?' in Jurnal Perempuan, no. 47, (2006):4–5, p. 4.
[3] Melani Budianta, 'Plural identities: Indonesian women's redefinition of democracy in the post-reformasi era,' in Review of Indonesian and Malaysian Affairs, vol. 36, no. 1 (2002):35–50, p. 37.
[4] Kathy Robinson and Sharon Bessell, 'Introduction to the issues,' in Women in Indonesia: Gender, Equity and Development, ed. Robinson and Bessell, Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, 2002, pp. 1–12, p. 3.
[5] Julia Suryakusuma, 'Women and human rights under Islam,' unpublished lecture notes, University of South Carolina, 2007, online http://www.lfip.org/laws718s07/documents/laws718unit11.ppt, accessed 30 May 2008.
[6] Budianta, 'Plural identities,' p. 37.
[7] Rachel Rinaldo, 'Ironic legacy: the New Order and Indonesian women's groups,' in Outskirts, vol. 10 (2002), online: http://www.chloe.uwa.edu.au/outskirts/archive/volume10/rinaldo, accessed 29 May 2008.
[8] Suryakusuma, 'Women and human rights under Islam.'
[9] Harkrisyati Kamil, 'The role and initiatives of NGOs in Indonesia in empowering freedom of information,' online: http://eprints.rclis.org/archive/00009304/01/Paper-Yati-kamil.pdf, accessed 3 June 2008. It is worth noting that the Indonesian government is not comfortable with the term NGO, as it sets up a dichotomy and potential conflict between government instrumentalities and non-government bodies. The accepted Indonesian term for NGO is LSM, Lembaga Swadaya Masyarakat, which translates as Self-reliant Community Institution.
[10] Khofifah Indar Parawansa, 'Institution building: an effort to improve Indonesian women's role and status,' in Women in Indonesia: Gender, Equity and Development, ed. Robinson and Bessell, Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, 2002, pp. 68–79, pp. 72, 78.
[11] As Mayling Oey-Gardiner points out, women have also headed up several gender-neutral NGOs, such as the Centre for Electoral Reform, the International NGO Forum on Indonesian Development, the Urban Poor Consortium, and the Environmental Forum Walhi. See Oey-Gardiner, 'And the winner is...Indonesian women in public life,' in Women in Indonesia: Gender, Equity and Development, ed. Robinson and Bessell, Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, 2002, pp. 100–112, p. 111.
[12] Kim Andren, 'Prostitution, pornography and Islamic law: NGOs confronting Islamic conservatism in post-authoritarian Indonesia,' unpublished Honours thesis, the University of Sydney, 2007, p. 4.
[13] Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat Republik Indonesia (DPRRI) (Indonesian House of Representatives), 2006, Rancangan Undang-Undang Republik Indonesia Tentang Anti Pornografi dan Pornoaksi.
[14] Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat Republik Indonesia (DPRRI), 2006, Rancangan Undang-Undang Republik Indonesia Tentang Anti Pornografi dan Pornoaksi.
[15] Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat Republik Indonesia (DPRRI), 2006, Rancangan Undang-Undang Republik Indonesia Tentang Anti Pornografi dan Pornoaksi.
[16] Ridarson Galingging, '"Playboy"'s prosecution setting a bad precedent,' in the Jakarta Post, 1 August 2006.
[17] Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat Republik Indonesia (DPRRI), 2006, Rancangan Undang-Undang Republik Indonesia Tentang Anti Pornografi dan Pornoaksi.
[18] Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat Republik Indonesia (DPRRI), 2006, Rancangan Undang-Undang Republik Indonesia Tentang Anti Pornografi dan Pornoaksi.
[19] M. Taufiqurrahman, 'Legislators ready to start anew on porn bill,' in the Jakarta Post, 27 May 2006.
[20] Stephen Sherlock, 'Indonesia's anti-pornography bill: a case study of decision making in the DPR,' unpublished paper, 2008, p. 8.
[21] Sherlock, 'Indonesia's anti-pornography bill, p. 4.
[22] 'Inul bergoyang, Inul digoyang,' Liputan6TV, 1 May 2003, online: http://www.liputan6.com/view/0,53850,1,0,1155606635.html, accessed 28 May 2008.
[23] Kalinga Seneviratne, 'Anti-porn bill dangles on "dangdut" dancer,' in Inter Press Service News Agency, online: http://ipsnews.net/news.asp?idnews=33152, accessed 28 May 2008.
[24] 'Editorial,' Jakarta Post, 11 February 2006.
[25] In 2003, Rhoma Irama issued a fatwa on Inul because of her erotic 'drilling' dance moves. 'Inul bergoyang, Inul digoyang,' Liputan6TV, 1 May 2003, online: http://www.liputan6.com/view/0,53850,1,0,1155606635.html, accessed 28 May 2008.
[26] Suryakusuma, 'Women and human rights under Islam.'
[27] Sherlock, 'Indonesia's anti-pornography bill, p. 4.
[28] 'Editorial,' Jakarta Post, 21 April 2006.
[29] Srikandi Demokrasi Indonesia DKI Jakarta, 9 August 2007, online: http://www.sdidki.multiply.com, accessed 30 May 2008.
[30] Dita Indah Sari, 'Karena kekuasaan butuh patriarki,' in Jurnal Perempuan, no. 47 (2006):7–15, p. 11.
[31] Lies Marcoes, 'Women's grassroots movements in Indonesia: a case study of the PKK and Islamic women's organisations,' in Women in Indonesia: Gender, Equity and Development, ed. Robinson and Bessell, Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, 2002, pp. 187–97, p. 195.
[32] Suryakusuma, 'Women and human rights under Islam.'
[33] Budianta, 'Plural identities, p. 39.
[34] Julia Suryakusuma, 'Women and human rights under Islam.'
[35] Melani Budianta, 'Plural identities, p. 35.
[36] Oey-Gardiner, 'And the winner is...Indonesian women in public life,' p. 100.
[37] For press coverage of the passing of the bill see: Peter Gelling, 'Indonesia passes broad anti-pornography bill,' in International Herald Tribune The Global Edition of the New York Times: Asia Pacific, 30 October 2008, online: http://www.iht.com/articles/2008/10/30/asia/indo.php, accessed 26 February 2009; 'Indonesia passes anti-porn bill,' in BBC News Asia Pacific, 30 October 2008, online: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/asia-pacific/7700150.stm, accessed 26 February 2009; Mathias Hariyadi, 'The Indonesian parliament adopts anti-pornography bill,' in AsiaNews.it, 30 October 2008, online: http://www.asianews.it/index.php?l=en&art=13630&size=A, accessed 26 February 2009; Soe Tjen Marching, '"Anti-porn" bill could threaten Indonesian women,' in Common Ground News Service, 25 November 2008, online: http://www.commongroundnews.org/article.php?id=24428&lan=en&sid=1&sp=0, accessed 26 February 2009.
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