Revisiting the Bissu Myth of Southeast Asian Sexual Diversity
Are the bissu really the bastions many claim them to be?
With a wave of legislation legalizing same-sex marriages, both in the West and in Asia [1][2][3][4], many queer Southeast Asians have been responding by resurfacing pre-colonial practices to emphasize their sexual diversity too [5][6].
One of the groups which have been frequently raised as bastions of sexual diversity is the Bugis. This is supposedly because the Bugis recognition of five genders reflects how Southeast Asians were a progressive people before the settlers arrived.
In particular, they often refer to the bissu (androgynous/intersex ritual specialists) and how they hold a revered role as spiritual communicators [7][8]. Their importance has been echoed by the Indonesian government and adat communities [9], and have also been popularized in the mainstream media [10].
However, I believe that more attention needs to be paid to how the bissu have been constructed for the purposes of nation-building and profit-making, and how problematic the historicization of the queer community is , revealing that perhaps the space of spiritual communication is not as sacred as it claims to be.
Who are the bissu?
Bissu is one of the five genders recognized by the Bugis, alongside the makkunrai (cis-woman), oroane (cis-man), calalai (FtM) and calabai (MtF). While bissu translates roughly to androgynous or intersex person, Graham [11] has noted that Bugis conceptions of sexual identity are not merely influenced by biological factors but also takes into account beliefs of spirituality, dressing, performance and behaviour among other things.
Also, unlike the waria, another term for a transgender person, the bissu play a ritualistic role as well [12]. The bissu have been recorded from as early as the 1500s as being important agents in royal courts, communicating with spirits to act as advisors to the nobility [13], or to cast spells to create strength [8][14].
The elusive power of the bissu
There are two main arguments as to why the bissu are seen to be powerful beings.
Part one: the bissu as charismatic leaders
The bissu are often seen as powerful because they seem to have what Weber would call “charismatic leadership”. In Economy and Society [15], Weber proposes that there are three kinds of leadership that people will follow: traditional, legal-rational and charismatic leadership. With regards to charismatic leaders, he explains that some individuals have this personality and characteristics that make them exceptional, so much so that people are entranced and will follow them.
Although bissu fall outside the cis-gendered heterosexual norms, they have cemented their position by necessitating their presence in spiritual communication practices. The ambiguous sexuality of the bissu is pivotal here as spirits only inhabit “sexless” bodies since masculinity and femininity are seen as conflicting powers that reach an equilibrium in hermaphrodite bodies [16]. For single-sex bodies, spirit possession would be an invasion of the body, which is also considered un-Islamic [7].
The importance of being a hermaphrodite is most pronounced in the maggiri ceremony, where bissu call on spirits to possess their body before proceeding to stab themselves with the badik (knife) or keris (dagger); only if they truly have the spiritual prowess will they remain unhurt by the stabbing [10].
Part two: employing rites and rituals to reify power
Others though view the power of the bissu as being gained via a systematic process; rites and rituals aid in the construction of their power [17]. This is echoed by Iman et al’s work which expands on how they prepare for, legitimize and maintain their power through various practices:
First, one must inform the bissu leaders, the Puang Matao (the highest-ranking bissu) and the Puang Lolo (the next-highest-ranking bissu), that one wishes to be a bissu. Then, they will take an oath called the pangaderreng, a pledge to obey all bissu rules and regulations. Following that, they must get a call from something unseen, a hint from spirits that one is called to become a bissu, before reporting back to the leaders again. This required preparation helps to reinforce the divinity of the bissu.
Only then can the person take on an apprenticeship, usually at the arajang house, to learn the practices of the bissu, also known as the ma’ bissu.
Next, when the student is deemed ready, they will be called on to perform the irebba, a ritual of allegiance. The rigour of the ritual varies.
For some, they will have to fast between one to forty days, of which three to seven of those days will be spent being wrapped up in white cloth like a dead person. For several nights, the student will be buried with a jar filled with water on the roof that the student can peer through. On the third day, the jar is stabbed with a sphere and water from the urn flushes the bissu, symbolizing purification and rebirth.
Umar [9] extends that bissu who do not complete this ritual will only be considered sandro (healers).
Following the ceremony, the bissu must adhere to codes of conduct, such as not wearing revealing clothing and being beings without desire. Otherwise, as Lathief [18] explains, they will be considered calabai kedo-kedonami (fake calabai; men who dress in a feminine manner to seduce women). If a bissu is found to have had sex, the punishment can be as severe as death [16].
The bissu will also be endowed with sacred objects like the gamaru, ceramic bows used to call spirits, and other musical instruments like the kancing and lae-lae [19]. Additionally, these objects will be a mix of both masculine and feminine objects: the jacket and cloth bissu wear are considered traditionally feminine, while the kris and headcloth are considered traditionally masculine.
By employing objects of both genders, these symbols and tools of power help the bissu to channel the opposite gender of the spirit they communicate with — meaning that if the spirit is a man, then the bissu will become a female [20].
With these tools and powers, bissu must continuously improve their social standing by performing other rituals. Other practices still conducted today include the mappalili (the annual rice-planting ritual), the mangolo (asking for permission and blessings from spirits before embarking on anything), the mangolo salo (the river ritual to ward off floods) and the cenning rara (seduction ritual) [9].
After losing their role in the royal courts, the process of payment now serves as a pivotal platform for the bissu to negotiate power since the client would “show respect” by offering money, and must bow and shake the bissu’s hand. However, if the bissu deems the payment to be below their social standing, they can reject the money and refuse service until more is given, indicating that one deserves to be recognized as being of higher social status.
Additionally, the rituals themselves can act as social indicators. In feudalist times, Umar [16] found that the rituals one conducts reflects one’s rank. Higher-ranking bissu, also known as bissu tanre, have higher levels of knowledge and are involved in bigger rituals like the mappalili. Lower-ranking bissu, or bissu ponco, are then relegated to more laborious tasks like mallangi (washing the nobles), maccera’ arajang (animal sacrifice) and mattoane arajang (serving feasts to the nobles).
Contestations of power
Despite the potential of spiritual communication practices to be used to elevate the position and agency of the individual to negotiate personal meaning, there seem to be three main problems with the arguments put forth thus far:
- Were the bissu really as powerful as people make them out to be in the past?
- If they were, has this ‘power’ translated into the present? Why or why not?
- Why is there this exclusive emphasis on the bissu over other queer communities?
The problem with historicization
At face-value, the fact that the Bugis recognize five genders and even place people of non-heteronormative genders in places of power might seem progressive. However, upon closer inspection, history might actually reveal the contrary, that the bissu then faced similar persecution and prejudices.
For one, looking back at history also reveals how these seemingly transgressive tales and rituals merely propagate the reproducing of heterosexuality. Umar [9] highlights that even when one looks back at Hindu texts like the Mahabharata, which the Bugis seem to have been influenced by, the conflicting tension between hermaphrodite’s inner and outer life are always stressed on.
Plus, in practice, if we look back at van der Kroef’s [20] description of how the bissu will always become the opposite gender of the spirit channelled, we see again how heterosexuality is still the norm. At present, bissu are similarly associated with roles where they are central to reproducing heterosexuality instead of challenging it — as in the case of wedding planners [10]. They seem to be more passive adopters of meaning rather than active contenders of meaning.
Looking at the bigger picture, the bissu belief in polytheism and cosmology often came into conflict with beliefs of Islamic fundamentalism. In an attempt to maintain the religious purity of the state, some have attempted to eradicate the bissu, or at the very least, make it much more dangerous to identify as so.
In the early 17th century, as Bugis rulers converted to Islam, some were able to keep their powers as royal advisors [13] but only if they changed their mannerisms to be more acceptable by Islamic standards, such as via remaining celibate [22]. Others still rebelled by spilling pig’s blood onto the first royal mosque, but the revolution ended in exile and the erasure of bissu from the courts [23].
Not everything was instigated by the bissu though. Even without provocation, the bissu of the Bone kingdom between 1631 to 1634 were banned from royal courts [13] and mosque duties were delegated to nobility instead [23].
These tensions were further escalated with the rise of Wahhabi and Salafiyya beliefs, which were strictly monotheistic [24][25][26]. In 1821, the Bugis ruler of Wajo had also started expelling his bissu subjects after much discussion with fundamentalist pilgrim-scholars [27].
Another wave of threats came in the 1950s, when Darul Islam accused the bissu of having Communist links, and conducted a massive purge, also known as Operasi Toba (Operation Repent) [25][28]. Hakim [29] reported that I La Galigo manuscripts were burnt, shariah law was instituted and the leader of the Bone region was decapitated. Davies [30] extends that not just bissu, but other trans folk were likewise “forced to shave their heads to display their immorality, tortured and killed”. Although later in the 1980s, some Luwu had successfully reinstalled court rituals, these positions were still mostly filled by Islamic fundamentalists [28].
That being said, religion remains a contested space [25] and individuals have the agency to navigate around it. In Umar’s [9] study, he found that despite such a history of violence, many bissu continue to involve themselves in Islamic festivals, serving alongside imams.
Power: lost in transition?
A second reason why current discourse is problematic is because it ignores the strategic marginalization of the bissu at present.
During early independence, the Indonesian state similarly constructed discourse to delegitimize the role of the bissu. The state argued that support for adat practices, such as those of the Bugis, would actually be support for the Dutch since it was part of the Dutch strategy to divide and conquer [16], and one of the ways in which they did so was by promoting ‘indigenous’ cultures to counter Islam [23][26]. Oddly enough, this did not come into consideration when in 2001, the adat council attempted to revive bissu practices together with the district government [9].
The above seems to reveal the constructedness behind state discourse, in an attempt to build an imagined community for the purpose of nation-building.
Even when the bissu seem to be growing in prominence, one need question whether they are really growing in power. It is true, for example, that the bissu have been growing more prominent in the media with recent documentaries and stage plays [31][32][33]. In 2011, the I La Galigo, the text that documents the bissu’s respected position in society, was also added to the UNESCO Memory of the World Register [28]. Some have argued that such recognition can be an indicator of Indonesia’s widening tolerance for diversity [34], or would at least heighten concern around needing to preserve bissu practices [18][35].
Yet, it is precisely because of such international acclaim that left researcher Umar[9] shocked when residents of Pangkajene, a regency of South Sulawesi, were not familiar with the concept of the bissu, demonstrating how the retraditionalisation of Bugis culture seems to be for economic objectives, rather than for any real educational or cultural impartation towards the local community.
Furthermore, looking at the way in which the bissu are represented, they appear to be painted more as monsters that are counter normative to the heterosexual Islamic majority of Indonesia [36]. In the words of Umar [9]: “hermaphrodite is a trope that organizes horror, pleasure, and morality in one body… subversive of the natural order”.
From a critical political economy perspective, we seem to be seeing the co-optation of niches [37], meaning that groups that are culturally “different” are integrated into the cultural industries in an effort to expand the industry’s reach and hence gain more profit, rather than for any real benefit for the niche groups themselves. This has only served to further the interests of the capitalist state while keeping the bissu exploited, underpaid and increasingly striving for monetary gain [38].
This discontent is reflected in Umar’s [9] work, where bissu claim that even the artists they work with exploit them, highlighting the long spiritual training they had undergone and the high price they paid for a modern irebba. Going back to the aforementioned importance of payment practices, predetermined ticket prices by mediating agents further diminish bissu economic autonomy and insult their self-worth. Moreover, as Davies [10] points out, while most bissu acknowledge that manuscripts like the I La Galigo give them knowledge, they do not claim that such texts have directly helped boost their social standing.
Of course, for some bissu, they might still see this in a positive light, as a continual source of stable income, and bissu serving the state is not a new phenomenon after all since they’ve had a long history of serving in royal courts [9].
Apart from diminishing economic power, we are seeing a diminishing of bissu symbolic power as well. The meanings of rituals seem to be lost over time as practices marketed by advertisers are heavily romanticized [39], and practices which were once used to welcome gods are now used to welcome the everyday tourist [16]. While we see the preservation of the pompous, is its meaning being preserved as well?
But that doesn’t mean we don’t have ‘diversity’
Over the years, we have seen the diminishing of the power of the bissu. This is not only reflected in the dwindling number of Bugis choosing to be bissu [19][35], but their reach has also eroded over time. Does this mean that Southeast Asia is ‘losing its sexual diversity’?
Focusing on the bissu ignores the fact that there are a growing number of terms and definitions of what it means to be queer. Younger Bugis, for example, associate the role of the bissu with the rural and the past [26], thus, even if they identify as being sexually deviant, they tend to join urban homosexual organizations instead [9]. Other terms include lesbi, tomboi, femme, andro, waria or priawan, just to name a few [40].
That being said, new terms doesn’t necessarily mean that these are new sexualities being ‘introduced’ — they should be understood more as new ways of expressing what people might have already been feeling or identifying.
In fact, even within the Bugis community, there are contested definitions of what it means to be bissu. There have been growing tensions between calabai and bissu, where the latter feel like the former are tainting the practices previously exclusive to the bissu. Iman et al [12] explain that calabai translates to “fake man” and bissu often look down on them because they are assumed to be more promiscuous and would only practice their transgenderism during rituals, distracting from the sexual purity required for spiritual communication rituals.
Yet, due to dwindling numbers of bissu, and the requirement of some practices, like the mappalili, to have at least 40 members, bissu have begun recruiting calabai as compared to bissu since the former title provides more employment options [26].
Conclusion
All in all, focusing on the bissu as simple bastions of Southeast Asia’s pre-colonial sexual diversity is a myopic one. This is not to say that they do not reflect Southeast Asia’s sexual diversity, but rather that we need to question further why we are stressing the need for Southeast Asian countries to have some kind of unique sexual identity, and why we are stressing on this community in particular.
For not only does this assertion ignore that power, roles and definitions are contested, and differ across time and space, but also dangerously essentializes the culture of the Bugisto be naturally accepting of sexually deviant individuals. This erases the experiences of those who struggle, both in the past and present, against discrimination and prejudice that comes from both within and outside of the queer community.
Moreover, by glorifying a specific kind of ‘queerness’, we run the risk of marginalizing others who might not fit neatly into the boxes we have created, and of preserving heritage for heritage’s sake. In the long run, this erodes the sanctity of whatever bissu practices are, forgetting the meaning behind them while remembering only the monetary value prescribed to them.
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Originally published at https://bitesizedeverything.blogspot.com.
