Neng Nana
“Anyone who imagines a different reality is helping everyone else to see our power to act, and to make changes.” — Never Say You Can’t Survive by Charlie Jane Anders
For generations, the queer experience in Indonesia has been a narrative defined by absence. Growing up, many of us existed in a state of cultural starvation, desperate for reflections of our own lives. While local comics occasionally offered glimpses of familiarity, the mainstream landscape—both domestic and international—rarely provided the representation we craved. When we turned to Western media, we were frequently met with a profound sense of alienation. Queer characters were almost exclusively white, their identities distilled into a singular, flattened trope of "queerness" that ignored the nuances of culture, geography, and intersectionality. In this global media ecosystem, the white Western experience has long been the default, leaving queer people of color to wonder: if our stories aren’t being told, do we exist?
The Paternalism of Global Solidarity
The friction between Western-led queer advocacy and the lived reality of the Global South is perhaps best exemplified by the Amsterdam Rainbow Dress. While the project’s intent—to promote inclusivity and equal rights globally—is noble, it often lands with a jarring, paternalistic thud in the countries it features.
To a queer Indonesian, the inclusion of our nation in such a display can feel performative at best and colonial at worst. It prompts an uncomfortable question: Is this all we are to the outside world? A checkbox in a narrative of "civilization" versus "homophobia"? By framing these nations as static, regressive monoliths, such projects flatten the complex, ongoing struggles of the local activists who are actively fighting for their rights.
Most frustrating is the historical erasure inherent in this view. Queerphobia in Indonesia is not a timeless, indigenous feature; it is, in many ways, an artifact of Dutch colonial administration, which introduced rigid, binary systems of class and gender that were alien to our pre-colonial societies. When the Western media reduces us to the "homophobic country" narrative, it ignores this colonial legacy and reinforces an outsider’s gaze that traps us in a perpetual state of victimization, while white characters in media are afforded the luxury of rich, complex, and unburdened lives.
A New Chapter: The Rise of Lunar Boy
The turning point in this landscape of exclusion arrived with the graphic novel Lunar Boy, created by the twin duo Jes & Cin Wibowo. Our initial connection was forged through APIPit, a digital pitch event for Asian and Pacific Islander creators. What began as a professional networking opportunity quickly blossomed into a profound dialogue about the difficulties of documenting and living within the Indonesian queer scene.
During 2021 and 2022, as the Wibowos were fleshing out the narrative for Lunar Boy, they spoke candidly about the struggle to research local queer culture. It is a reality that, in Indonesia, there is no luxury of being "out, loud, and proud" in the Western sense. Our communities are underground, operating through networks of trust and personal vouching to avoid being doxxed or targeted by authorities. As the twins noted during their time in the United States, there is a prevailing, pervasive ignorance among Westerners who often ask, "Are there even queer people in Indonesia?"
When Lunar Boy was released, it shattered these misconceptions. It was not merely a "queer story"; it was an Indonesian queer story. The narrative follows Indu, a trans boy from the moon navigating the complexities of culture shock and language barriers upon moving to New Earth. Yet, the heart of the story lies in how Indu finds acceptance within New Earth’s queer community. It serves as a time capsule of hope, proving that if we can imagine a world where a trans boy is embraced by his family and community, we can build the momentum to make that reality in our own streets.
Chronology of Recognition
The success of Lunar Boy—which includes winning the Stonewall Book Award and an Ignyte Award for Outstanding Comics Team—marks a significant shift in the global literary landscape.
- 2021-2022: The Wibowo twins navigate the research phase, struggling against the scarcity of archived Indonesian queer history.
- 2023: Lunar Boy is published, providing a distinct, culturally grounded narrative that defies the "universal" queer experience.
- 2024: The book receives widespread critical acclaim, culminating in the Stonewall and Ignyte awards. These accolades do not just belong to the authors; they represent a victory for the Indonesian queer community, signaling that our stories are not only valid but necessary for the global canon.
Reclaiming the Past: The Roots of Gender Diversity
To understand why Lunar Boy resonates so deeply, one must understand that the modern queerphobia in Indonesia is a relatively recent, imported phenomenon. Historical records tell a different story:
- Wayang and Gender Fluidity: Traditional shadow puppet theater (wayang) features the warrior Srikandi as a trans man and the central hero Arjuna as a third-gender figure (kanci).
- 14th-Century Records: The Eastern Javanese legend of the bandit king Panji Semirang details a life of adventure and a fated, same-sex romance with Raden Inu Kertapati.
- Serat Centhini (19th Century): Commissioned by the crown prince of Surakarta, this compendium of Javanese culture explicitly records romantic and sexual relationships between men.
In these historical contexts, gender roles were not defined by the binary hierarchies of today. The focus was on societal harmony and the individual’s contribution to the collective. The "self-inflicted epistemicide"—a term used to describe the internal erasure of our own cultural history—has unfortunately led younger generations to view traditional terms like waria (a label used by trans-feminine people) as slurs, rather than remnants of a once-respected lineage.
Challenging the Hegemony of "Universal" Media
The critique of modern media, such as Disney’s Raya and the Last Dragon, underscores the frustration of the Global South. When a film is directed by those who view Southeast Asian culture as an aesthetic prop, the resulting story is an hollow approximation. As the Wibowos and other collaborators noted in their video series reviewing the film, "If [Raya’s] identity is so interchangeable with other Southeast Asian ones, then she was never meant to represent anyone."
This critique applies to the representation of queer people of color globally. Too often, our stories are filtered through a lens that demands trauma or exoticism to be "relatable" to a Western audience. Whether it is the depiction of Black queer women or the queer experience in Latin America, there is a tendency to strip away the joy and the cultural specificity in favor of palatable, stereotypical narratives.
Implications: The Power of Local Storytelling
The success of Lunar Boy carries profound implications for creators in the Global South. It proves that we do not have to discard our cultural heritage or censor our specific realities to find an audience. By weaving in concepts like the Bhinneka Community—a nod to the national motto Bhinneka Tunggal Ika (Unity in Diversity)—and the tradition of gotong royong (communal spirit), the Wibowos have created a story that is unapologetically Indonesian.
The book acts as a rebuttal to those who suggest that the only solution for queer people in oppressive regimes is to leave. Lunar Boy argues that our safe spaces can be, and have been, built by our own hands, grounded in our own history.
When I shared my own flash fiction with the twins, their suggestion to include the simple, intimate word sayangku ("my love") was a reminder that our mother tongue is a tool for queer expression. We no longer need to write in the voice of the oppressor. As we push back against the flattening of our identities, we reclaim our right to tell stories that are as complex, joyful, and diverse as the people who live them.
The future of queer storytelling in the Global South is not about seeking validation from the West. It is about documenting our own history, fostering our own communities, and ensuring that the next generation knows they were never alone. We are here, we are part of a rich and ancient tapestry, and we matter.
Asro
Pevita Pearce
