The waria love having their pictures taken, and most evenings at the school turned into impromptu photo shoots. This is Shinta, beaming after we gave her a Polaroid of herself.
Tucked away inside the back room of a beauty salon in Yogyakarta, Indonesia, is a school for Islamic studies tailored to a very specific student body: transsexuals. The SeninâKamis school (âMondayâThursdayâ in Indonesian, the two days of the week school is in session) was founded in 2008 as a safe place for transgender Muslims to practice their faith without judgment or ridicule. In Indonesia, transsexuals are known as waria, a portmanteau derived from the Indonesian words for woman (wanita) and man (pria). I first learned about the plight of the waria while researching an entirely different story, but on discovering Senin-Kamis I abandoned my original project and made arrangements to visit.
The area of greater Yogyakarta, located on the island of Java, is home to approximately 3 million people and 300 waria. Waria assume the identity of women but usually retain their male reproductive organs, which should make them the life of the party but, as with many transgendered individuals, leaves them prone to discrimination, ridicule, violence, and poverty. Their job opportunities are generally limited to street performing, prostitution, working in beauty salons, or acting on television, playing caricatures of themselves.
Islam was introduced to Indonesia in the 13th century and soon became the countryâs dominant religion. These days, around 88 percent of Indonesians identify as Muslim, making Indonesia the country with the worldâs largest Islamic population. Traditional Indonesian beliefs and practices have been incorporated into the mix, meaning that while most Indonesians pray to Allah, theyâre also scared of ghosts. Following suit, many waria are Muslim, which raises some confusing and convoluted questions about Islamâs official stance on gender-bending. The short of it is that Islamic law forbids men to dress and adopt the mannerisms of women, and vice versa. Unsurprisingly, the image of a bunch of transsexuals facing Mecca with their dicks dangling underneath their jilbÄb gives some parts of Islamic society the heebie-jeebies.
Maryani and some fellow waria at the funeral of a friend who died of HIV complications.
Islam recognizes two sexes, male and female, which are segregated during prayer time. The waria have chosen the third way, and in theory can attend prayers as either men or women, but the reality is never that easy. During my time in Yogyakarta, I only met one waria who attends Friday-night prayers dressed as a man; most of the others donât go, because itâs uncomfortable for them. The imam who teaches at the school tells me, âIn Islam, no one is forbidden from entering a mosque.â He argues that while Islamâs religious tenets donât discriminate against waria, Muslims often do. âSome say transvestites are not allowed, some say they are.â His belief is that waria have the same right to worship God as anyone else, stating firmly: âIâll take a stand that this school is lawful.â
Senin-Kamis provides transgendered worshippers with a safe place to gather, pray, and learn about the Koran under the imamâs guidance. About 30 waria regularly attend class, held twice a week at sundown. The school also operates a boardinghouse, and thereâs usually at least one waria on hand at all times in case someone in need turns up. In the spirit of tolerance and acceptance, gays, lesbians, and Christians are also welcome.
The âschoolâ is actually one very small room with lurid orange walls and mats covering the floor. The only adornments are a TV, a framed poster featuring glamour shots of the schoolâs personnel, and a large image of Mecca. Maryani, a mountain-size transsexual who eats with the ferocity of a man just released from a POW camp but applies eyeliner better than any woman Iâve ever met, is the schoolâs founder. She also runs a salon filled with beauty products, giant trophies sheâs won over the years for her hair and makeup skills, and a picture of the previous sultan of Yogyakarta, who, Maryani assures me, was a good guy. Behind the schoolroom are a kitchen, toilet, and numerous rats that dart back and forth as we sit talking on the floor.
Jamilaâs backyard breast job. The silicone is injected straight into the skin.
I originally arranged to meet Maryani at the school, but before my arrival she asked whether Iâd like to attend the funeral of a waria who recently died from complications caused by HIV. Suffering from food poisoning but dosed up on gastro tablets, I arrive and am immediately overwhelmed at the sight of so many waria, sitting on chairs in the middle of the road and leaning against the railings of a bridge, smoking Gudang Garams. Maryani takes my hand and leads me into a room filled with flowers, burning incense, and a casket, which she instructs me to sit next to while prayers are said over the body. Unable to understand a word, unfamiliar with the deceased, and not wanting to puke all over the coffin, I sit still and sweat.
As we follow the funeral procession, I learn that some cemeteries forbid waria from being interred within their grounds. But I am told that this section of Yogyakarta is a waria-friendly community and many are buried here. It upsets Maryani that waria who die without funds or family are often not given a proper burial, but instead unceremoniously dumped in shallow graves like stray cats. The school regularly contributes whatever it can to help cover funeral costs. âIn one month, usually four people need to be buried,â she says. âEven when we die we need money.â
Most die from HIV, which continues to ravage the waria community due to high rates of prostitution, scarcity of and lack of education about condoms, and lack of access to drugs needed to contain the virus. At the gravesite, a hole is dug and the body is lowered into the ground. There are no tears or outward signs of mourning; everyone is quiet. Later, Maryani tells me the funeral cost $35.
Novi takes a urinal break.
Over the next few days, I spend a lot of time sitting on the schoolroom floor, smoking ciggies (which everyone at the school enjoys, with the exception of Maryani) while the waria show me photos of their boyfriends on their mobile phones and Facebook pages. They tell me about the music they likeâmainly dangdut, Indonesiaâs sexy pop musicâand a waria named Yuni Shara sings me Celine Dionâs âMy Heart Will Go On.â I learn that Maryani used to be the singer in a dangdut band, and from their excited expressions and hand movements, I gather she was relatively famous at one point.
Later, Maryani and I go to the market to buy some suppliesâglittery eye shadow and flower headpiecesâand I jump on the motorbike with her and Rizky, Maryaniâs nine-year-old adopted daughter. The traffic is nuts, so I wrap my arms around Maryaniâs waist. As we zigzag through the narrow streets, I canât stop laughing as I realize her giant, sweaty breasts are sagging over my hands.
Rizky was still a newborn when Maryani rescued her from abandonment by her birth mother, who couldnât afford an illegal abortion. As Maryani tells me about the difficulties of being a single mother, tears spill onto her cheeks and muddy her thick foundation. She wipes them away with the end of her jilbÄb, and Iâm struck that even though Maryani has a penis, she is crying tears that only mothers cry.
Maryani holding a glamorous photo of herself in younger days.
After she composes herself, I ask Maryani whether sheâs ever wanted a sex-change operation. She says that she doesnât have the right to change what God has given her, and that itâs rare for waria to undergo these types of procedures. Besides, she adds, most waria couldnât afford the surgery even if they wanted to go through with it. I ask her why altering her body and face with silicone is acceptable, but my point gets lost in translation.
The next day I meet Jamila and Wulan, street performers who work in central Yogyakarta. Wulan is wearing a bright pink sari, while Jamila is simply dressed but armed with her voice and a homemade instrument. We walk around for hours as they sing the same Javanese love song over and over, begging for money. Some people smile and happily give them a little cash. Others throw coins at them, teeth clenched, just wanting to be rid of their presence. On a good day they make about 80,000 rupiah ($9) over the course of ten hours. As we walk down a busy street, a child approaches us, notices the waria, and starts screaming. His face is a mask of absolute terror, and his mother furiously shoots laser beams from her eyes. The waria stroll past, unfazed. After spending so much time with them, Iâd forgotten that their appearance can be alarming.
The distinctive waria look is magnified by silicone injections to their faces and breasts, giving them a slightly inflated appearance. Itâs more pronounced in some, such as an elder school member named Shinta, but most waria appear to have had some work done. From what Iâm told, waria believe the silicone gives their features a softer, more feminine look. The procedure, which secretly takes place in certain salons or homes that are able to obtain black-market silicone, is far from cheap and can take years of saving to afford. I discover that Jamila is getting her breasts injected during my visit, and she agrees to let me sit in on the procedure.
The breast injection takes place in a boiling, unsterile room. My face drips with sweat as Jamila removes her t-shirt and lies down, and I start to feel ill. Mendez, my interpreter, is making squealing noises and wonât open his eyes. A glass jar of wobbly silicone appears along with ten thick syringes. Then a pair of anonymous hands performs the job with the confidence of someone whoâs done this many times before. Even so, some of the syringes get stuck or clogged as the silicone is injected, and it takes a fair amount of force to push the stopper through. There are no bags: The silicone is forced straight under the skin.
The author dressed as a traditional Javanese bride. Makeup, spangled outfit, and 11-pound headpiece courtesy of Maryani.
Watching a manâs flat chest grow into two small mounds before my eyes is incredibly strange and disconcerting. Iâm fixated on their shape; thereâs something very wrong about them. Womenâs breasts curve from below, but these little hills are round at the top and then flat from the nipple down. After the final bits of silicone are slurped out of the jar and pumped into Jamilaâs chest, tape is affixed over the wounds. I feel sick, and Mendez looks green, but Jamila is fine. We go outside for air and cigarettes, and Jamila pulls the lyrics to the song she wants to teach me out of her back pocket. The makeshift boob job is quickly forgotten as she starts singing the melody.
The two waria I meet who havenât had any work done are also the youngest: Novi and Nur. They claim the injections and other procedures are only pursued by older waria looking to revive their sex appeal. The pair work as prostitutes, and I arrange to meet them one evening at Noviâs boardinghouse, across town from Senin-Kamis, before they head out to the streets. Their room is tiny. As they apply their makeup, Nur, whoâs 19, slim, and quiet, tells me that she grew up in Lombok, an island off Bali, and traveled to Yogyakarta to attend Senin-Kamis after reading about it on the internet. She turned up on Maryaniâs door, was taken in, and has been a student for more than a year now. She says sheâs happy to have met other waria, but itâs different from what she expected. She didnât think sheâd ever be working as a prostitute, but after she quit her day job she had to do something to survive. I ask how much they make a night, and Novi tells me: âIâm grateful if I get 100,000 rupiahââapproximately $11.
Later that night, we head to their regular hooking spot, next to a railway station. Iâd heard stories of waria being hit by passing trains while working, and the girls point to an area along the track where a group of older prostitutes routinely hustle.
Not a lot happens: The waria look pretty and get boozy on drinks in plastic bags while they wait for customers. Novi says, âI only drink so I can gain courage to stand up for myself.â Itâs possibly the most depressing thing Iâve ever seen.
Maryani left home at the age of 12 and was working the streets by 15, selling her body for as little as 10,000 rupiah ($1). Although the other waria were kind, it was tough. Like many aging waria, she switched to street singing in the 80s and eventually landed a job as a cleaner at a transvestite beauty salon. She worked her way up to become a beautician, with the goal, now achieved, of saving enough money to open her own parlor. Maryaniâs success is modest, but most waria donât make it even that far.
Maryani credits Islam with saving her life, and sheâs passionate about its transformative powers. She was raised Christian by parents who adopted her at birth, converting to Islam in her 30s. She stopped drinking and quit her wild ways, shifting her focus to fulfilling Godâs purpose for her and, these days, motherhood. She hopes her story can inspire other waria to improve their circumstances. âIf transvestites can improve their lives, society would not judge us in a negative way,â she says. These days, her prayers are simple: health, safety, a long life, and that Rizky passes her exams.
Wulan taking a break from street performing in downtown Yogyakarta.
Before wrapping up my trip, I throw a party for my new waria friends. Maryani makes arrangements at a local waria-friendly restaurant, and she offers to turn me into a traditional Javanese bride for the occasion. As nervous as I am about her doing my makeup, I agree. The word is put out for the waria to meet back at the salon the following evening, with everyone dressed to the nines.
Most of the waria arrive at the salon as men, or something in between, and they transform into women there. Maryani wraps me in a sarong and begins applying makeup. The more she slathers on, the older and more orange I feel. But Iâm impressed by her dexterous application of false eyelashes. Her assistant places about 11 pounds of wet pandanus plant atop my head, held in place with what seems like hundreds of bobby pins. She covers it with a flower headdress and then puts black and gold stickers over my hairline. Maryani tells me I look cantikâbeautiful. She hands me a batik sarong and a sheer lime green top, dripping with sequins and beads, and helps me put them on. I see myself in the mirror. Itâs frightening.
The restaurant has a stage, sound system, and a guy who plays keyboards while the waria sing. He asks who the new ladyboy is, and I realize heâs talking about me. The waria take turns performing dangdut songs, and Iâm dragged to the dance floor numerous times, but the soggy pandanus on my head is so heavy that itâs hard to move. One of the oldest waria performs a traditional Javanese dance, and even the imam and his family show up. Inside, thereâs no booze, but outside Novi and her friends are secretly drinking in the bushes, away from Maryani and the imamâs watchful eyes. We know itâs time to leave when the keyboard player, as some kind of weird joke, pulls a gun on my photographer in the male restroom. Soon the waria pile onto their scooters, taking care that their sarongs and evening gowns donât get caught in the wheels. We wave goodbye and call one another âbeautifulâ a few more times, which they are, despite all the silicone, wild armpit hair, and cheap wigs. With lipstick in their pockets and God on their side, it seems that the waria have a fighting chance.
Watch our documentary about the plight of the waria this month on VICE.com.
